


the lives we live in song

by AngelsAvengeMe



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Musicians, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Emotions Through Song, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Miguel should get paid for carrying the weight of Johnny's stunted emotional state, Music Festival, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Past Legal Trouble, Pasts that Haunt You, Reference to Jail/Prison, Timeline What Timeline, Touring, original lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsAvengeMe/pseuds/AngelsAvengeMe
Summary: Johnny Lawrence's music career has been on a steady decline since he left the boyband Cobra Kai to go solo. Now straddling the edge of obscurity years later, he's given the opportunity to get his glory back, all he has to do is play the prestigious All Valley Music Festival Tour.Finally able to prove himself as worthy of the success he once had, things seem to be looking up for him in the first time in a long while.Then enters Daniel LaRusso, the biggest thorn in his side since his pop days. Joining the festival last minute, the two are pulled back into each other's orbits, reigniting (and revealing) long-held feelings, good and bad.Or,Former boyband stars turned solo artists Johnny Lawrence and Daniel LaRusso are forced to reunite at a music festival tour, bringing old feelings back to the surface.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Miguel Diaz/Samantha LaRusso, Minor or Background Relationship(s), pre Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz/Demetri
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60
Collections: Cobra Kai Secret Santa Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sisterpiranha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisterpiranha/gifts).



> This is a Cobra Kai secret santa gift for the wonderful @SisterPiranha! Thank you for being so patient and understanding 💕 I hope you like it! 
> 
> \----
> 
> I never intended for this fic to be this big but it def took on a life of its own, demanding I keep writing to do it some form of justice lol Hopefully that happened! 
> 
> \----
> 
>   
> and just two quick notes:
> 
> \- In this fic, Johnny is the (only) one who injured Daniel's knee~
> 
> \- This doesn't necessarily matter in an AU, but there are a few things I reference/talk about in the fic that happen in the movies/show but at different times than canon. Basically, I messed with the timeline to suit my needs lol
> 
> I don't think it'll be too confusing but if it is, please let me know and I'll add a timeline! :)
> 
> Happy reading!

“No.”

“What? C’mon, Mr. Lawrence, it’ll be so cool. If you go, then all the greats will be there. Well, not _all_ of them, but most. Well… I mean, there were a lot of popular singers over those decades, so statistica—um, never mind, you get what I mean.”

Johnny opened his fridge, grabbing the closest Coors and downing half of it in one go. He had a feeling he didn’t want to be sober for whatever scheme the kid had cooked up this time.

“What did I say, huh? Music festivals are for losers with not enough groupies to fill a real venue and pussies who need open space and fresh air. It’s supposed to be a friggin’ concert. Cramped, smelly places are part of the experience. ”

Miguel opened his mouth, thought better of it, then pouted.

“But it’s _the_ All Valley Music Festival. It’s like Coachella for old people!”

He belched. “What the hell’s a ‘Coachella’?”

“…You really gotta move past the 80s, sir.”

Johnny shrugged, promptly flopping down onto his couch. He picked at a crack in the old leather.

“Look,” said Miguel, sitting on the creaky recliner adjacent to him, “you need the exposure, I need the experience. It’s perfect. Especially since this year it’s gonna be a tour, not just a four-day thing. It’s basically a road trip. Now that’s something cool people do.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. How the hell he ended up with the nerdiest kid ever for an assistant he’d never know. Carmen owed him big time.

“I’m good.”

“But… no offence sir, it could really help get you back in the public eye. Maybe even get your record label to take you back so you could release some music again and—“

He sat up, suddenly no longer in the mood.

“Miguel. Leave it. It’s not happening.”

“But—“

Johnny stood, heading for the door. Miguel sighed.

“I’m getting something to drink. Don’t call me.” He slipped on his shoes, making sure to pocket his sunglasses before he left. “Unless Elle MacPherson changed her mind about that date. Then you can call me.”

“Who—?”

He slammed the door shut.

——————————————————————

The bar was sparsely populated—not that Johnny was surprised. This kind of joint was more of a hit at night, especially after the Welfare cheques started rolling in, making it perfect for when he felt like mid-day drinking.

It was easy to keep a low profile here. Not get hounded by people looking for autographs and pictures when all he wanted was to be left alone to wallow. Especially since anyone here at this time of day, particularly the regulars, understood the sentiment well. He hadn’t been prodded more than a handful of times since he started coming around. It was godsend. It was a wonder more famous people didn’t come here.

“Another?”

Johnny blinked and looked to the bartender. He was a chubby guy, probably a few years younger than himself, but who could really tell for sure in a city like LA?

“Sure.”

The bartender placed another Banquet down in front of him. He took a swig, relishing the coldness.

Then he realized the guy hadn’t moved.

Great. Another fan. If this guy wanted an autograph for his ‘mom’, he’d start a bar fight in retaliation.

“What?”

“You look familiar is all.”

Johnny snorted. “I’m here more often than my own house. I sure hope I’d look familiar. I’m paying your full salary at this rate.”

The bartender shook his head. “No, like outside of here. You been in a commercial or something?”

So much for being anonymous.

“Look buddy, I just want to drink and be left alone. That’s it.”

The bartender put his hands up, placating. “Sorry, dude. I don’t normally ask but it’s been bugging the shit outta me since you started coming ‘round here. Plus with the sunglasses indoors… y’know. You gotta be somebody.”

He’d been haunting this place for at least…

“Three years. Really?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You got memory problems or something?”

“Naw, that’s why it’s been annoying me so much. Normally I’m good with faces—gotta be in this line of work—but I can’t place you. It’s driving me nuts.”

Finishing off the rest of the bottle, he toyed with the idea of putting the guy out of his misery. Maybe he’d be so wowed he’d wipe his tab. …Or, more likely, he’d make a big deal out of it, pester him about getting his mid-life crisis band a meeting with a big music exec Johnny supposedly knew. _They were sure to take off if someone just gave them a chance, really._ He rolled his eyes, already annoyed at the prissy version of the guy he’d created in his mind.

“You sure you weren’t in a commercial?”

He tapped the side of his empty beer.

Maybe it was time to move on. The bar down the road seemed like a good bet. Had to have hotter chicks than this shithole, at least.

“Used to be in a band.”

The bartender blinked, tilting his head as if trying to make sense of it.

“Huh.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just… I used to be the kinda guy who only listened to the hits, y’know? Not that indie, one-off stuff.”

“You think _I_ ,” he said, pointing at himself, “was in an _indie_ band? Me?”

“Well, yeah,” said the bartender with a shrug. “Otherwise I’m sure I’d recognize you. I was glued to MTV back in the day. Seen every music video there was in the 80s and a good chunk of the 90s stuff, too. Used to think girls thought it was hot to basically be a music trivia god.” The bartender sighed, adding under his breath: “No wonder I was virgin so long.”

Johnny blinked. This guy had to be messing with him, right? It might’ve been three decades since his Cobra Kai days but he didn’t look _that_ different.

Did he?

“I was in a platinum selling boyband then went solo, dick. I’m not some lame ass hipster, one-hit wonder.”

The bartender went slack jawed, eyes lighting in recognition. “No way…”

_Finally_. It’s not like he was ‘the Kevin of the group’, as Miguel had put it—whatever that meant. He was Johnny _goddamned_ Lawrence. The hot bad boy of Cobra Kai. The one with the killer smile and ace dance moves. The one that pulled the most tail, got the most magazine covers.

If you think about it, the fact that it took the bartender this long to recognize him was embarrassing.

“You’re that blond dude from Bonsai! aren’t you? Ricky, or somethin’. No friggin’ way, dude! My sister loved you guys. She even got the lyrics from “That Stupid Jacket” tattooed on her! Oh man did my mom wanna kill her when she—”

His eye twitched as time seemed to slow, the bartender’s ramblings fading as blood rushed in his ears.

He must’ve heard him wrong. He didn’t say—

There was no way…

Bonsai!?

_Bonsai!_?

Who in the fu—

“Screw you man,” he spit, jumping off his stool, pushing a patron out of his way as he left. He ignored the sounds of crashing glass and cussing behind him, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here.

An older woman brushed past him outside. He waved to get her attention.

“Hey. Hey ma’am. You’re old enough to know 80s music, right?”

She scowled at him and kept going, trying to ignore him.

“Ma’am, please. This is important. Do you know who I am?” he asked, trying to keep up with her quickened pace. “Just look at me,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “Do you recognize me?”

He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. She recoiled.

“Get away from me, you bum!” she screamed, holding her phone up like she was ready to whip it at him. “Stay away or I’m calling the cops.”

He held up his hands. “C’mon lady, I’m desperate. Just answer the damn question and I’ll leave you alone.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“No,” she said, her voice as stiff as her posture. “I don’t know who you are, you crazy asshole.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He felt like a balloon that’d just been cruelly popped. 

He abruptly pivoted on his heel, turning back toward the bar’s parking lot.

With shaky fingers he pulled out his car keys, fumbling them as he tried to open the lock to his Firebird.

Wrenching open the door, he all but fell into the driver’s seat. He felt dizzy, like he was going to be sick—no—like something inside his chest was ready to burst out of him like in _Alien_.

Did this mean…

No.

He couldn’t be.

Was he a has-been? A nobody? No different than some Joe-blow office worker?

People still knew who Johnny Lawrence was and cared what he was up to.

Didn’t they?

——————————————————————

“We need to talk.”

Miguel looked up at him, his eyes wide.

“It wasn’t me.”

“I-” Johnny faltered, not sure what to make of the statement. “What?”

“Uhhh…”

“Y’know what, I don’t care. Move,” he said, motioning for Miguel to stop laying in his spot. He immediately complied, huddling his long legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, looking at Johnny in anticipation from the corner of the couch like some weird gremlin.

“So, uh, you’re back early, sir,” said Miguel, his eyes glued to his sock as he picked imaginary fluff off of it. “Did you get banned from another bar?”

“No,” he snapped, annoyed at the legitimacy of the guess.

They sat in silence, Miguel smart enough to know at this point that Johnny would say what he wanted when he wanted.

“I…” Though Miguel still wasn’t looking at him, he knew he was intently listening. His shoulders were tense, eyes sharp even as he faked nonchalance. “I’m still relevant, right?”

Miguel stilled for a split second before continuing his picking, telling Johnny everything he needed to know.

“Um—“

“Goddamn it,” he groaned, putting his head in his hands. “When was someone going to tell me?”

“Well, it’s kind of natural. Especially when you haven’t put any new content out in a while,” he said. “And besides, it’s not like too many celebs even make it this far. You should be proud-”

“Cut the shit.” Miguel’s mouth clamped shut. “Just tell me one thing.”

Miguel nodded, eyes wide again.

“Do you think that stupid festival will help change that?”

Gasping, Miguel jumped to his feet, practically vibrating. “You mean you wanna do it?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. How could one person have so much energy? If he wasn’t so upbeat (and Carmen’s kid) he’d demand a drug test to make sure Miguel wasn’t doing coke.

“How many stops is it?”

“12!” Miguel practically screamed. “There’s 14 shows, and it’s six weeks. That’s it.” 

Goddammit. That actually wasn’t too bad.

“You really think this will help?”

Nodding like a bobble-head, Miguel ran to the next room only to come back with his laptop.

Sitting next to Johnny, he opened the festival’s site.

“See all the people,” he said, pointing at photos taken from previous years. “That’s the main stage there,” he added, clicking on the first link under a tab labelled ‘Stages’. “Unfortunately it was apparently already booked up when I called, but I got you on the next best one.”

He clicked the next link. Though the stage was definitely scaled down, it was still pretty big, with a crowd almost as large (and definitely as enthusiastic) as the previous.

“Is that Dee Snider?” he said, leaning in close to the picture.

“Hell yeah it is.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

He studied the photos. Second stage wasn’t too bad, especially if the likes of Dee Snider got to play it. Plus, it was only six weeks. He’d been on benders longer than that. At least this time he’d be making money and putting his name back out there in a positive light.

And… not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but he missed performing. He missed getting to sing his heart out, nailing an amazing riff on his guitar, letting the screams wash over him as the sweat cooled on his skin between songs.

“Are any of those Bonsai! a-holes anywhere near this?”

Miguel looked scandalized at the mere suggestion. “I never would have signed you up if they were, sir.”

“No mandatory time with reporters?”

“That’s… not a thing is it?” He frowned. “Is it?”

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know, can’t chance it though. I’d rather swim with Jaws than deal with those dickwads.”

“Um, well, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

He scrubbed at his face, his nails raking through his two-day old stubble. This was probably going to be the worst decision of his life. Well… maybe not _the_ worst. But still.

Oh, what the hell.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do it.”

Miguel’s eyes lit up, his body springing up so fast Johnny barely had time to save the laptop before it crashed to ground.

“Yes!” he screamed, dancing around the living room, his arms up like he was Rocky or something.

“On one condition though.”

“Anything!”

Johnny bit back a chuckle as Miguel kept running around the room like an unhinged two-year-old.

“We give it everything we got.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first thought he had when he stepped out of the taxi and onto the bright Festival grounds was—

“Bullshit.”

Miguel cringed as he came around to stand next to him, not meeting his eye.

“It’s not that bad, sir…”

Johnny squinted as he looked around. The supposed second stage was in shambles, a handful of workers loitering around, shooting the shit instead of putting up beams, hanging lights, and, y’know, doing their damn job.

“Christ.”

“They still have time to set up.”

He looked at him. “It starts tomorrow, Diaz.”

Before Miguel could embarrass himself further with some ridiculous excuse, a giant of a man came jogging their way.

“No friggin’ way! Is that _the_ Johnny Lawrence? How are ya?”

It was a little disconcerting to have to look so high to stare another man in the face—especially one who was double his size—something he quickly forgot once his arm was almost torn off with a wrenching handshake.

“Huge fan. Huge fan,” he said through a beaming smile. “Colby Summers is the name.”

“He’s the Event Coordinator for the festival,” supplied Miguel. The two shook hands, Miguel almost hitting the ground on the down shake.

Colby gestured to the stage. “I know it looks rough right now—the guys are running a bit behind—but rest assured, they’ll be done in time. Even if I gotta get in there myself to make it happen, eh,” he added, his booming, exaggerated chuckle immediately grating on Johnny’s nerves.

“Haha. Yeah.”

He clapped Johnny on the shoulder, almost pancaking him, before waving him towards a cordoned off area packed with at least some 200-odd RV tour buses and trailers.

“How’s about your boy gets your bags while I show you to your abode for the next six weeks?”

He looked at Miguel, who now had a frown on his face, and stepped closer to him so Colby wouldn’t overhear.

“If the stage isn’t done by tonight we’re outta here first thing.”

Miguel nodded, rapidly deflating.

He stepped away, speaking louder. “You drop my guitar and you’re walking between stops.”

Miguel sighed, mumbling under his breath, “It was one time.”

———————————————————

“Y’know, I was there at your first concert after you went solo as The Johnny Lawrence Experience? Swear I bought half the merchandise that night. And the booze,” he added, chuckling as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One of the best concerts I’ve ever been to, even to this day.” Colby stopped by the makeshift security booth, procuring a few visitor’s badges from a guard who looked like he’d rather be dead. “You’re one helluva powerhouse when you get up there on stage. Like a fish to water. It’s unreal.”

He handed the badges to him. They all said ‘VIP’ in obnoxiously glittery gold font. “In case you wanna bring some hot babes over,” he said with a wink.

Johnny forced a smile.

“It’s a shame the kids today don’t know some of the greats,” said Colby, as they made their way through the maze of mostly glistening black and white tour buses. How the hell anyone was supposed to find their way in the dark and wasted, Johnny didn’t know. Maybe most of the performers were too old for that shit now. It’s not like he was a spring chicken anymore. “My daughter had her friends over a few months back and they didn’t even know who you were. Imagine not knowing who sang the classic love ballad “Doe Eyes”? That’s insane to me, man. Their parents are failing them.”

Apparently they weren’t the only ones who didn’t know him, if his time at the bar was anything to go by. He hadn’t told Miguel, but after he’d agreed to join this stupid tour, he’d gone on the Google and searched his name. It hadn’t been pretty, to say the least. The top hits, after his Wikipedia page (which had a goddamn section saying he’d been on hiatus since the mid-2000s, something that was very much _not_ true), had all been older articles from gossip mags like “Where Are They Now?” and “Who’s Who of 80s Pop/90s Rock”. Nothing from the past five ( _five!_ ) years even mentioned his name, let alone was specific to him.

Conversely, when he’d looked up Daniel LaRusso in a moment of weakness, he’d found the twerp was _still_ making headlines, even after all these years. Apparently he’d just released a new album, some adult contemporary shit, and was already a media junket darling. Dick.

Colby turned them down a row that had about twelve RVs lining either side, ass to front.

“Truth be told, it’s stuff like that that made me decide to take this festival on the road. Gotta enlighten the people. If the youth don’t know who Johnny Lawrence is, there’s no hope for the future if you ask me.”

Finally, they stopped in front of a tour bus near the end of the line. Johnny’s name was taped to the door on a piece of printer paper. His RV was definitely one of the nicer ones on the lot. Though, he noted, the one across from his with no name was somehow even larger _and_ newer looking. How the hell did they get it to shine like that? Was it made out of goddamn diamonds or something?

“Whose is that one?” he asked, pointing behind him as Colby fumbled through a huge ring of keys.

“Huh?” He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, uh, no one, don’t worry about it.” He put the key in the lock. It didn’t work. He swore under his breath.

“Seems like it’s for someone pretty important. Wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself.”

Colby laughed, but it had a nervous edge to it.

“I wouldn’t worry. They might not be coming. They were a last second addition and uh, well, they like to keep to themselves. Might not even use our RV to be honest. Might go for a hotel at each stop. Though, apparently almost everything’s booked up so, uh, yeah I wouldn’t worry. I doubt they’ll follow through.”

Now that made Johnny stop. Keeps to themselves? Able to (supposedly) afford multiple hotels, car rides and/or flights for the next six weeks _and_ a last minute addition? Definitely someone big. Like _big_ big.

Oh my God, maybe it was Gene Simmons. Or Axl Rose. Holy shit, maybe it was Slash. Oh man did that guy know how to party.

Colby unlocked the RV, holding the door open for Johnny like he was some sort of butler, not the man in charge. Climbing the few steps in, he immediately stopped as he took everything in.

Sleek wood floors shined under the artificial light that spread across the whole RV. Directly to his right was a large flat screen TV, a long couch that covered in too-big pillows, a giant gift basket of some sort on the middle cushion, across from it. Next to it, a little breakfast nook across from a stainless steel kitchenette had plush seats and sturdy table big enough for four people at least. Further down the hall, he could see the door to a bathroom, a set of bunk beds embedded in the wall with a flimsy curtain for privacy, and another door that opened into what looked to be a surprisingly spacious and cozy bedroom.

Jesus, not even his own place was this nice. Definitely wasn’t as clean, that was for sure.

“So? Whattya think? Pretty swanky, eh?”

“Definitely.” He headed to the fridge. It was stocked full with food, with a whole shelf even dedicated to his Coors. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in then,” said Colby, sounding a little wistful. “If you need anything else though, anything at all,” he added, taking out a business card and writing on it, “here’s my personal number. Feel free to call. Anytime.” He winked as Johnny took it, immediately forcing a shudder from him.

Colby mock-saluted him, and left, his thundering steps shaking the RV as he did.

There was definitely something wrong with that guy.

————————————————————————

Despite the memory foam mattress and down-filled duvet, Johnny couldn’t sleep. Miguel, the lucky shit, was out cold in his bunk, his soft snores filling the otherwise quiet night.

Groaning, he smushed his face into his pillow. What kind of music tour was this quiet at 2am? Where were the parties? The late night drunks stumbling around, belting out their favourite songs? Guys sneaking groupies into their trailers? Last minute band practices? Jesus, it was like a lame-ass suburb out here. Even old geezers’ homes had more fun.

Had the music scene really changed that much since he’d been in the thick of things? If this had been the 80s or 90s, a quiet night meant the place was literally deserted. Did a few decades really change things that much?

God, he hoped this wasn’t a sign.

Rolling out of bed, he slipped on his ratty red sweater and headed out, careful not to wake Miguel as he pulled a Coors out of the fridge.

Tip-toeing, he left the RV, sitting on the metal stairs. The cool night air burned his lungs as he took in his rather bland surroundings. The only remotely interesting thing was that the RV across from his was still dark, no name added to the door yet. Looked like the guy changed his mind after all. At least someone was smart enough to stay away from this mess.

Just as he took a swig from his beer, his phone chimed. A text from Miguel. Rolling his eyes, he cracked the door open.

“Go back to sleep.”

He closed the door on Miguel’s muffled apology, wondering what stars aligned for Johnny to be saddled with an assistant like him. Kid truly was something else.

Opening the link from the message, he was immediately brought to a YouTube video. His heart stuttered. It was him, during the height of The Johnny Lawrence Experience. Back when he was still landing number ones and breaking radio play records. Before it all went downhill faster than you could say “You’re a piece of shit screw-up, Lawrence.”

He watched, entranced by his performance. Though he didn’t remember playing that exact gig, he could tell by his face—by his body language—that he was in the zone, completely feeling the music like that’s all he needed in the world, let alone that moment.

He cleared his throat, trying to rid the sudden lump that had formed. Goddammit. He wasn’t some lame-ass who liked to wax poetic over the past, but those years really were the best of his life. He’d never loved anything as deeply as he’d loved music, not even close. At one point, he might’ve said Ali—in his deepest swooning phase—but hindsight had made it painfully clear that wasn’t true. Lust and love were two totally different things. If only he’d been smart enough to realize it at the time. Maybe he’d still have his career.

Maybe he and Daniel—

“ _That stupid jacket,_

_It haunts my dreams._

_I’ve tossed and turned_

_But still no sl—”_

He fumbled his phone, surprised at the sudden song change. The device slipped through his fingers, falling to the pavement with a sharp crack.

“Shit.”

He hopped off the stairs and, in one of his less-than-smooth moments, ended up kicking his phone, forcing it to skid under the RV.

Looking to the heavens, he cursed his existence.

For a moment, he seriously considered just leaving it there. Let the animals have it, they’d probably get more use out of it than him. Then he realized that stupid Bonsai! song was still playing. Sure, it would turn off eventually, but who’s to say it another one wouldn’t play? And then another, and another? In no world could Johnny Lawrence get caught listening to that crap, even if it had been accidental.

Setting his beer down and getting on his knees, he peered below the undercarriage. Squinting, he could see something vaguely phone shaped a few feet away. Somehow, it was still playing that dumb song.

“ _—I really feel_

_About that stupid jacket.”_

With a sigh, he reached for it, his fingers grazing the side, pushing it further away.

Grumbling, he shuffled as closer, the side of his face pressing hard against the RV’s edge. Muscles straining, he reached as far as he could. He was so close, if he could just—

“Johnny?”

He jerked, knocking his upper arm hard against the underside of the RV, forcing him to drop his phone again.

“Shit,” he said, rubbing where it smarted the worst.

“You okay?”

He turned, only to stop dead in his tracks, his heart beating wildly.

No way.

No _fucking_ way.

“LaRusso?”

“Hey, Johnny.”

He hadn’t seen the man in years. Not in person, at least. And shit, not much had changed. He still had those defiant Bambi eyes, that easy smile, and slight physique—though now with a little more meat on his bones, making him not quite so twiggy looking. It suited him.

Goddammit. How did he still look so good?

“Why’re you here?”

LaRusso quirked a brow. “Going on tour,” he said, like it should be obvious. “Like you, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah.”

He couldn’t do this. Just being a few feet from the man was enough to send him into a panic, how the hell was he supposed to do a six week tour? There was no way, he’d—

“ _That stupid jacket, jacket_

_That stupid jacket, jacket”_

Daniel’s head tilted. “Is that…?”

He blinked, then immediately ducked down for his phone. Thankfully, it was closer than before so he could quickly grab it. Smashing his finger against the now cracked screen a few times, he finally got that god awful song to turn off.

Not one to pussy out, he turned back to LaRusso, schooling his expression into one of nonchalance.

“I—”

“Dad! There you are.”

They both looked over. A teenage girl, carrying two large pieces of luggage and a purse, headed toward them. She, like her dad, seemed to also be an easy smiler. Behind her, one of the security guards—who looked more like a string bean nerd than someone capable of protecting anyone or anything—was huffing as he helped carry even more bags.

“This place is so confusing. Thankfully Demetri found me.”

“Yep,” he said, gasping for air. “It’s alphabetical by surname. You’d think they’d put up signs or something,” he huffed, “but Mr. Summers was very adamant we not. Didn’t want to help potential stalkers or something.” At their troubled expressions, he blushed. “Uh, n-not that that’ll be a problem. Just, uh, just a precaution. You never know. People be cray.”

“…Right,” said Johnny, seriously wishing he’d just stayed in bed.

LaRusso took the bags from his daughter, placing them next to luggage he’d apparently already brought over. Grabbing a key from his pocket, he opened the door to the RV right across from him. The fancy one. The one Colby had said probably wouldn’t be used.

That little cockroach.

He goddamn knew and didn’t want to tell him. Being the ‘superfan’ he claimed to be, he would have known the history between them. The bad blood. How shit this was all bound to end up. Just like it always did.

“Why don’t you get ready for bed, Sam? I’ll help Demetri with the bags.”

“Okay,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek before getting in the RV. “Night, dad. Thanks for the help again, Demetri.”

“No problem-o.”

“You can just leave everything there, I’ll take them in.”

Demetri sagged, obviously overjoyed he didn’t have to do anymore manual labour. “Thanks, man.”

LaRusso bit back a smile, obviously tickled by the kid’s lack of care that he was a celebrity. He was too, if he was being honest. Somebody had to keep the little shit honest.

Demetri gestured bye with finger-guns for some godforsaken reason and quickly left, leaving the two of them alone again.

“So, alphabetical, huh?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Apparently.”

LaRusso looked down, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.”

He nodded, no longer able to keep his eyes on him for fear he’d do something. Good or bad, he wasn’t sure yet.

“Um, well. I’d better get this in. Gotta be up early.”

“You always did need your beauty sleep, Princess.”

Now it was LaRusso’s turn to roll his eyes. Grabbing some of the bags, he opened his RV’s door. Soft golden-hued light spilled out, delicately highlighting his cheek and nose.

“Night, Johnny.”

The door closed.

“Night,” he said softly.

Yup. He was screwed. So screwed.

——————————————————————————

“I swear I had no idea, sir. If I did, I would’ve demanded they moved us. Or-or gotten us out of the contract. Something.”

“It’s okay.”

Miguel set his egg filled fork down. “…It is?”

He looked at him. “No.” Miguel’s shoulders sagged. “But it’s not your fault. It’s that dickhead Summers’ fault. I don’t know what game he’s playing at but I want no part in it.”

“‘O whaddya gonna ‘o?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dumbass. Your mom will kill me if you choke, especially on something as stupid as breakfast food.”

Miguel swallowed hard, most of the egg probably more solid than mush. “Sorry.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to do anything.”

Miguel, about to pile more food into his mouth, stopped, his fork hanging mid-air.

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me. I’m not doing anything expcet playing my sets, hooking up with hot babes, and getting shit-faced. That’s it.”

“But… you _hate_ Mr. LaRusso.”

He sighed. “I don’t _hate_ him. We just… we don’t see eye-to-eye a lot.”

“But he’s the reason your career tanked.”

At his glare, Miguel blushed. “Sorry, sir.”

“Jesus. What did I tell you about apologizing?”

Miguel poked at his eggs. “‘Don’t’,” he sighed, a heavy dose of ‘hard done-by’ layered on top. “But it’s true, isn’t it? At least that’s what you always say when you get really drunk and start ranting.”

He scrubbed a hand across his face, suddenly not in the mood for this. The weight of his past—especially the parts he shared with LaRusso—too much for ten in the morning. Hell, too much for this lifetime.

It wasn’t too early to start drinking, was it?

“Look. LaRusso and me, a lot of our problems came from other things, not each other. Not really.” He sat back, images flooding his mind. Of Kreese, of Ali, and award shows and after parties. Bruised knuckles and bloody noses. LaRusso’s face scrunched in pain, knee held to his chest. “I just want to let the past be the past. That’s all.”

Miguel nodded, a thoughtful look on his face.

“We can still prank him though, right?”

“Duh.”

—————————————————————————

The first week practically sailed by. He’d been nervous to play his first real show in a decade but, despite the odd hiccup and modestly sized audience, it had gone surprisingly well. So well, in fact, an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time had started to grow within him with each set, helping him feel something akin to happiness, hope, … _life_.

When had something as simple as that begun to feel foreign to him? How long had he just been coasting, letting life—the feeling of being alive—pass him by without a care? No wonder Miguel had been trying so hard to get him to perform again. The difference between ‘deep-in-the-music-Johnny’ and ‘has-been-Johnny’ was clear as day.

Surprisingly, he’d found himself… not _upset_ , but bothered, that the halfway point was looming closer, their second week having just finished up in Denver. The threat of this re-discovered feeling being ripped from him now sitting in the back of his mind, haunting him like some annoying ghost.

Though a good chunk of the tour buses were going to make the almost 13 hour trek to Dallas so people could have a few days to relax in one place, Johnny wanted to take his sweet time so he could finally see some of the sights he’d missed out on previous years of touring. One of his better ideas, he’d thought, especially since it meant more time away from LaRusso.

The two of them, despite their RVs being put across from each other at every stop, somehow hadn’t crossed paths since that first run-in. There’d been a few close-calls for sure—especially after Johnny had made the dumb decision to try and catch one of LaRusso’s sets, ending with them almost making eye contact—but other than that, it was like the guy could teleport.

Even Miguel had noticed, making a sly comment that maybe the both of them were trying to avoid each other.

Not that he was avoiding LaRusso. That’s something little girls with crushes did. Neither of which applied to him.

Sighing, he dragged a french fry through the ketchup on his plate. If this is what he wanted, why did it kind of suck?

“Do you think they sell poetry books here?” asked Miguel, this time waiting to finish talking before he shovelled absurd amounts of food into his mouth.

“We’re at a pitstop diner that’s also half a convenience store, what do you think?”

Miguel pouted, poking at his spaghetti.

Before he could ask why in the hell Miguel of all people would suddenly want a poetry book, LaRusso walked in.

He looked slightly dishevelled, a fine layer of dirt on his fancy clothes, his hair damp with sweat and messy like he’d run his hands through it several times. There was a pinched look to his face, obvious from even behind his sunglasses.

He went further into the convenience store portion of the building, his head down, trying to avoid a large group of tourists. 

“Shit.”

Miguel stopped mid-sentence, almost giving himself whiplash to turn around to follow Johnny’s eye-line.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Miguel turned back to him, his eyes wide. “Do you think he’s okay? He looks a little roughed up. Maybe we should ask.”

“Why? He’s probably just looking for the can.”

His face did a weird spasm, like he was trying hard to repress his thoughts and failing miserably.

“But…”

Johnny took a bite of his BLT and chewed.

“But…”

He took another bite.

Miguel looked physically pained now but Johnny refused to give in. The kid had to learn to speak his mind at some point, especially if he wanted to make it in a cutthroat industry like the music biz.

As he went for more, Miguel loudly sighed.

“What about Sam?”

Now that made Johnny pause.

Firstly, when the hell had Miguel and Sam met? Had they hung out? They must have, and probably more than once based on how much he was worrying his lip. At least some sort of positive impression had been made, that much was obvious, especially if she was the reason behind the sudden interest in poetry. And secondly, he did have a point. LaRusso was a lot of things, but a bad father didn’t seem to be one of them. If Sam wasn’t with him, something must be wrong. Assuming there really was a problem.

Sometimes you just really had to piss, okay?

Sighing, he set his sandwich down. Goddammit.

“You owe me big time.”

Miguel nodded, watching him go.

“Restroom’s back that way,” he said as he approached LaRusso, stopping him before he bolted for the cashier.

LaRusso winced, then sagged in relief. “Johnny, thank god.”

Even under penalty of death he’d never admit how hearing LaRusso say his name like that made a warm feeling bloom in his chest. 

“Looking a little worse for wear. What, d’you walk here?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but by LaRusso’s sudden pursed lips and tense shoulders, he’d hit the nail on the head.

“No friggin’ way,” he said, trying to hold back a laugh. “You’re telling me your fancy-ass RV couldn’t make the trek? We’re not even halfway done yet.”

“Ha-ha, Johnny. Yuk it up.”

He snickered. “You gotta admit, it’s pretty funny.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dammit, it wasn’t fun to goad him when he looked so pathetic. It had been easy from afar, but up close, he could see his skin was paler than normal, a fine sheen of sweat across his upper lip and forehead, which had—

“Shit,” he said, grabbing LaRusso’s arm. “What the hell happened to your head?”

LaRusso looked to his hand before looking up at him. Never had he wanted to rip someone’s sunglasses off so bad before. He was almost desperate, his palms sweating, needing to see for himself—in LaRusso’s eyes—that he was actually okay.

“Oh. Right,” he said, touching the rapidly purpling bruise at his hairline, hissing when he made contact.

“Don’t do that, dumbass,” he said, wrenching his hand away. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

The ice that ran through his veins at that was surprising. LaRusso was never one—even if something was in his best interest—to just agree. He always had to make everything way more complicated than it needed to be. He was a little shit like that. So this… this was worrying.

Ugh. What was wrong with him? LaRusso was fine. He was a grown man. Grown men got bumps and bruises.

Quickly grabbing a giant water bottle and an ice pack meant for lunchboxes, he pushed ahead in line at the checkout, throwing down way too much money for it.

Seizing LaRusso’s wrist, he pulled him toward the restroom.

Thankfully, the large stall was free. Pushing LaRusso in, he locked the door behind him before guiding him to sit on the closed lid.

“Drink some,” he said, handing him the water bottle. Again, LaRusso didn’t fight him, just did as he was told. The unnaturalness of it made his stomach twist.

Johnny went to take LaRusso’s sunglasses off, only for the man’s hand to shoot out, fingers gripping his wrist hard to stop him in place.

A moment passed between them, both of them breathing shallowly. A small tremor rippled through LaRusso’s fingers.

Johnny swallowed hard.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you baby,” he croaked. “Can’t check your head if I can’t see it properly.”

A second passed before LaRusso deflated, his fingers sliding away, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Sorry. I know.”

Johnny nodded, then carefully, as if reaching for a skittish animal, moved his hands forward. Gently as he could, he placed his fingers on either side of the sunglasses. LaRusso’s breath stuttered once more before evening out.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” LaRusso said, his voice rough despite the long drink he’d just taken.

As smoothly as he could, he pulled them off. His bruise seemed worse now that he could see it fully. It was swollen and obviously tender. The puffiness and discolouration spreading from his hairline to the outer corner of his right eye.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, slipping the sunglasses into his pocket.

“Blew a tire,” he explained. “Guess I hit my head. Don’t know, can’t really remember.”

“Is Sam okay?”

“Yeah, thank god. A little shaken, but thankfully fine otherwise,” he said. “I told her to stay with the driver ’til I got help.”

Stripping off his sweater, Johnny wrapped the ice pack.

“Keep your eyes closed and don’t be a pussy,” he said, then gently placed the wrapped ice pack against the worst of the bruise. LaRusso hissed, his hand flying to the pack, his pinky and ring finger overlapping with Johnny’s.

He stepped back, just a touch, looking at LaRusso’s face. His eyes were still scrunched shut, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. It was clear he was in pain, a look that brought a queasy feeling to his stomach.

“I need to get back. They’re probably wondering where I am,” he said, his voice so low Johnny had to lean in.

“How come you didn’t call?”

“Huh?” LaRusso blinked open his eyes, looking at him in confusion.

“Why didn’t you call a towing company? Triple A, whatever.”

He sagged slightly. “Oh. Um. We tried. There wasn’t any service.”

“Guess cellphones aren’t as cracked up as they’re made out to be.”

LaRusso snorted, immediately regretting it if the following wince was anything to go by.

“C’mon,” he said, helping him to his feet. “Let’s see if this pitstop has a mechanic available.”

——————————————————————

Though there had been a mechanic able to work on the RV, the replacement tire wouldn’t get there ’til at least a week’s time. Meaning the LaRussos were stranded.

…If it hadn’t been for Miguel, that was.

After bitching, moaning, begging, and trying every other trick in the book, Johnny finally gave in after the kid had threatened to call Carmen. That woman was scary as hell when she wanted to be. Plus, she had access to all his guitars back home and wasn’t afraid to use them as leverage.

So, here they were. Miguel and Sam using the two bunk beds, Johnny in his room, and a mildly concussed LaRusso on the couch. (And yeah, no matter how hard LaRusso pouted, Johnny was not giving up _his_ bed just so the Princess could be a little more comfortable.) He’d been in worse situations, but it still didn’t make things any less uncomfortable.

At least LaRusso had been able to get ahold of Summers—something Johnny hadn’t been able to do despite the private number he’d given him—and had been repeatedly and passionately assured they’d be getting him a new tour bus by the time the Dallas show was set to start.

Johnny really doubted it was going to happen, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hope (and pray, and beg) things worked his way for once.

Then the morning of the Dallas show dawned and LaRusso and his daughter were still ‘guests’ on their tour bus. Seeing the trajectory of his life, especially when LaRusso was involved, he should’ve anticipated this happening. Miguel was ecstatic of course, his crush on Sam so obvious it was a wonder LaRusso hadn’t found them somewhere else to stay just to keep the two apart. Sam, to her credit, seemed to be totally okay with being stuck in an RV with two random guys, even offering to help Miguel practice his guitar playing when Johnny was too busy. She was surprisingly good. For a LaRusso, that was.

As for Johnny, well, he was holding it together. Barely. He and LaRusso had been bickering non-stop. Oddly though—and not that he’d admit it—there never seemed to be any heat behind the words from either side. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought LaRusso was flirting. But he did know better. And there was no way that was true. Not with their history.

To stop from thinking about it, he instead focused the brain power on his music. He’d never been big on lyric writing—more a melody guy himself—but this newly brewing energy within had inspired him to want to try again. Soon, he’d found himself with some twenty-odd different songs, all in varying levels of completeness, but still formed enough to count. It was refreshing. Like he’d finally tapped into a well after being stuck in the Sahara for years.

Which was now why he found himself sitting at the table in his RV, pen and notebook in front of him as LaRusso got ready in the restroom. With the kids out doing god knows what, it was the most quiet time he was likely to get all day.

“Why do you insist on leaving your guitar laying around?” LaRusso said as he passed Johnny. “It’s gonna get wrecked.”

Johnny’s breath caught in his throat as he looked up, retort dying on his lips. LaRusso was glistening—literally _glistening_ —as he padded toward ‘his’ couch in a fluffy, deep blue bathrobe. Then he bent down—round ass sticking out like he knew exactly what it would do to Johnny—to leisurely dig through his bag.

Johnny cleared his throat, clamping violently down on the stirring emotions and subsequent rush to his lower belly the sight brought. Now was definitely not the time. In fact, _never_ was the time.

“If you don’t like it you can get off my bus, LaRusso.”

He twisted around, still bent over, a stupid smirk on his stupid face.

“Don’t blame me when it gets broken then.”

“I’ll blame whoever I want. It’s my bus.”

Snorting, LaRusso turned back to his bag, pulling out dark acid-washed jeans, a blue button up shirt similar to the colour of his robe, and… black boxer-briefs. Ones that had to be unbelievably tight, especially with an ass like—

God _dammit_.

He put his head in his hands. Breathe in and out, in and out, in and o—

“Johnny?”

He jerked up, LaRusso so close now he could smell his fancy-ass body wash—some subtle pine tree thing with an undertone he couldn’t place.

Just another thing to drive him crazy at night while he was alone in his bed. Couldn’t even jerk off with all the people around, that was the worst part.

Not that he’d admit to jerking off to LaRusso. Nope. Never happened, never did, never would.

“You okay?”

The funny thing was, LaRusso looked like he meant it, too.

“I’m fine, Danielle,” he grumbled. “Leave me alone. You’re killing my vibe,” he added, gesturing to the blank notebook page in front of him.

LaRusso raised a brow, a smile playing at his lips. “Sorry, wouldn’t wanna commit that mortal sin.”

Before he could snipe back, rapid knocking sounded at his door.

They locked eyes, LaRusso shrugging before heading back to the restroom to finish getting ready.

Dick.

Sighing, he got up. The knocking intensified.

“All right, all right. I’m coming. Chill out, man.”

He wrenched open the door, that ‘security guard’ kid losing his balance and face-planting into him, only to quickly draw back, pinwheel his arms to try and find balance, not achieve it, and begin to fall backwards, sure to land hard on his ass if Johnny hadn’t caught him by the collar last second.

“Jesus, kid, what the hell.”

Demetri—or whatever his name was—shook his head, trying to catch his breath. Based on how red his face was and the near-rivets of sweat running down it, he’d just exerted himself enough to last a lifetime.

“You gotta—,” he huffed, “you gotta hide. T-they’re-coming,” he wheezed.

He stiffened. “Who?”

Demetri grabbed at his hands to get Johnny to let him go. Instead, he yanked the kid in and poked his head out, quickly looking for who he could be talking about. Not seeing anyone, he slammed the door shut, locking it just in case.

“Who?” he demanded.

Demetri leaned his head back, groaning to the ceiling. “God, I didn’t think I’d be doing so much work.” He pinched his shirt between his fingers to try and air himself out. “My friend said security guards just sit around all day. Obviously not. I’m starting to think he just said that so we could—”

“Hey!” he snapped. Demetri immediately stood to attention, his eyes wide.

“Who’s coming?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” he said. “A reporter. I was in the parking lot, about to head over to man the booth, when I heard him talking. Apparently they know about Mr. LaRusso getting injured or something. They think you did it, from what I gathered, so he was gonna ambush him about it before his set. I don’t know, I only overheard bits and pieces of him talking to his editor on the phone,” he supplied. “At least, I think it was his editor. I’m not sure why you’d say ‘Yes, I’m gonna meet my deadline,’ and ‘That’s a horrible lede,’ if you weren’t. But hey, who am I to judge?” 

A horrible sinking feeling spread through his skin, seeping deep down into the pit of his stomach. They thought…?

Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? Johnny Lawrence and Daniel LaRusso both on tour again, and the same one at that? There was no other outcome than one of them getting hurt. The problem was, he realized with a heavy sickness settling in his chest, that he had a well documented tendency of violence when it came to LaRusso. What most people didn’t know was that—whether purposefully or not—LaRusso also had a history of wounding Johnny too, just in different ways. Only one ever ended up looking like the bad guy in the end though.

The only surprising thing here was that it took reporters this long to realize they were touring together.

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

Demetri nodded. “Definitely. His sense of style is somehow worse than mine.”

He looked back to the washroom door. Based on the sounds of the blow dryer still whirring away, LaRusso was in the depth of his girly hair care routine, meaning Johnny had more than enough time to find this guy and deal with him before his set.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling Demetri with him out the door and into the oppressive Texas heat.

“What? Me?”

“No, the other security guard who saw the reporter. Yes, you, you dummy.”

“You should know,” said Demetri, struggling to keep up with Johnny’s determined strides, “that I am not good at confrontation. Like in any form. I will wilt like a flower if he comes at me.”

Johnny groaned, once again wishing he’d just stayed home.

———————————————————

The grounds were packed, hordes of people milling around between stages, their hands filled with obnoxiously greasy foods and alcoholic drinks. Their bags overflowing with enough merchandise to put most of them in debt.

Currently, as they stalked past, some band Johnny had never heard of was screeching out some god awful lyrics about a lost love. Or maybe about missing their mom, it was hard to tell. Either way, it was distracting as hell when all he wanted was to find that stupid reporter, quash his hopes and dreams like a bug, and stop him from ambushing LaRusso before the situation somehow ended up with Johnny getting bit in the ass like it always did.

Ever since their respective debut days in the early 80s, LaRusso had been the goody-goody innocent one while Johnny had morphed from being the cool bad-boy to bully to criminal. It didn’t matter that he’d made a stupid mistake. That the two of them had made tentative amends after he paid for it. That they hadn’t spoken in close to 30 years. That things were different now and had been for a long time.

It also wouldn’t matter that Johnny hadn’t even been there when he’d gotten hurt. Or that he’d basically been harbouring the guy for the past four days. That he’d repeatedly woken him up in the middle of that first night to make sure he wasn’t bleeding into his brain. No. All that mattered to them was stoking the flames and drumming up old drama so they could sell more papers. Stupid dickheads.

“Mr. Lawrence?”

He twitched as came back to himself. Somehow they’d ended up about 60 feet from the main stage—the one LaRusso was meant to play in less than half an hour. A large crowd was already beginning to form.

Demetri was pointing towards the far right corner of the stage. Trying to skulk in the shadows while chatting up a group of obviously disinterested women, was a beefy guy with a goatee, aviator sunglasses, and a cheesy bandana that looked ridiculous on him. An obvious poser if he’d ever seen one.

“That’s the guy. The one with the bandana,” said Demetri. “…I wonder if he knows his vest is inside out.”

“Demetri,” he said, his voice stern, leaving no room for disagreement. “Listen to me. I need you to go find another security guard. Preferably a full-time one with the big muscles and extra height.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’ve got lots of muscles. Maybe not super obvious ones, but they’re there,” he said, patting at his so-flat-it-was-almost-concave bicep.

He raised a brow. “You think you can intimidate that guy?”

Demetri stilled. “Uhhhh. Yeah, no, you’re right.” He looked around, as if hoping said qualified guard would just magically appear. “Y’know what? I know just the guy. Be right back!” He bolted, slipping into the crowd and quickly disappearing.

Shaking his head, Johnny turned back to the reporter. He didn’t look like one he’d met before. Then again, as he’d been painfully reminded of these past few months, these guys weren’t really chomping at the bit to know him anymore.

Maybe it was time to remind people why Johnny Lawrence was a feared interviewee back in the day.

Pushing his way through the swelling crowd, he soon found himself behind the reporter.

“—ladies, it’ll be fun. Lots of free booze. A guaranteed good time or my name ain’t P.J.”

Johnny snorted. P.J.? What was he, a 12-year-old boy?

The girls looked at one another.

“Um, thanks but no thanks,” said the leader of the group. “We have other plans. Away from here.”

“Oh, sick. Maybe I could—”

“Sorry, gotta go,” said the leader, the group disappearing so fast it was like they hadn’t even been there in the first place.

Jesus. That had to have been some kind of talent.

“Not your lucky day, huh?”

“Ah, they don’t know what they’re missing… out… on…” P.J. trailed off as his eyes landed on Johnny. “Oh. My. God. No freakin’ way. Johnny Lawrence? _The_ Johnny Lawrence?”

“Shhh,” he hissed. Just because he wasn’t recognizable anymore, didn’t mean no one knew who he was.

Annoyed, Johnny pulled him off to the side, closer to the back of the stage near a large alcove that would hide them from prying eyes.

“I can’t believe it,” said P.J. with a dazed look. “Johnny Lawrence touching me? Day. Made.”

“Shut it,” he sniped. “You that reporter I’ve been hearing about?”

P.J. froze. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, his whole being lit up.

“ _You_ know who _I_ am?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “No, dipshit. I just want to know what you’re doing here.”

P.J.’s face dropped. “Oh.” A moment passed before he seemed to bolster himself up, putting on an air of nonchalance. “That’s cool. I barely know who you are so I guess we’re even.”

“Riiiiight. Look,” he said, crowding in close, “you know press can’t ambush artists. You have to book an interview slot just like the rest of your buddies if you want your ‘scoop’.”

“So it’s true then? You and Daniel LaRusso got into a fight?” enquired P.J., his eyes lighting up. “Word has it he took quite the hit to the head. Might not even be able to perform today.”

“What? _No_. Not at all.” Friggin’ reporters and their ‘gift’ of being able to twist even the most innocuous of statements into something completely asinine.

“No, what? That you didn’t get into a fight, or no he’s not gonna be able to perform?”

Johnny shook his head, mind spinning. “No to both, you dolt.”

“So you didn’t injure Daniel LaRusso in retaliation for him getting you thrown in jail back in ’91?”

“Jesus. No. I wasn’t even there when he got hurt.”

“So he did get hurt then.”

…Shit.

God-friggin’-dammit. This is exactly why he hated reporters.

“Look, dude,” said P.J., his voice airy with false sympathy, “I understand why you’d want to get back at him. He ruined your life. I’d also want revenge if I was you.”

Count to ten-count to ten-count to—

“It’s not like he wouldn’t deserve it.”

“You know what,” said Johnny, shoving P.J. hard against the side of the wall, a sudden rage exploding inside his chest that burned so bright it blinded his vision. “You try and ‘surprise’ LaRusso or _anyone_ else here again and I’ll make sure you regret it. Got that?”

P.J. trembled, eyes wide with fear. Johnny pressed his forearm harder against his throat, forcing him to gasp and sputter.

“Everything all right here?”

Blinking hard, the white slowly began to recede from his vision. He abruptly stepped back, horrified he’d lost control so easily.

P.J. crumpled to the ground, hand flying to his throat as he hacked.

Demetri and another security guard with a bright red mohawk and a stark, janky scar above his upper lip, intently took in the scene, the latter with a steely, borderline intimidating eye.

At least Demetri had attempted to follow the plan.

“I—”

“He tried to kill me,” wheezed P.J., struggling to his feet.

“Didn’t look that way to me,” said the janky-lip security guard.

P.J. gaped at him. “W-what? He had his arm to my neck. I couldn’t breathe! You saw it.”

The kid shrugged. “Is that what you saw, Demetri?”

Demetri shook his head. “I saw a reporter harassing the talent. A life-time bannable offence within the All Valley Music Festival and its sister festivals,” he said. “There’s 34 of those, by the way.” 

“You little shit!” He swiped at Demetri but the janky-lip kid was faster. In a blink of an eye, he was in front of him, ready to grab P.J.’s wrist. Without a wasted second, he’d twisted it roughly behind the man’s back, bringing him to his knees with a sharp cry.

“Try something like that again and being banned will be the least of your worries,” said the kid, his voice so icy even Johnny almost shivered. “Got it?”

P.J. bobbed his head, his face reddening, neck veins bulging with the strain of the hold.

“Good.” He shoved P.J. away, back closer to the way they’d come from. “Now leave before you piss me off even more.”

Tail between his legs, P.J. scurried off, not once looking back.

Johnny whistled. “Damn kid, nice moves.”

Astoundingly, he blushed, gaze averting as his shoulders moved up to his ears.

“Right!” said Demetri, slapping his hands together, face beaming. “Eli’s—”

“—Demetri,” he whined.

“Right, sorry. _Hawk_ ’s the best,” he said, patting his shoulder in apology. “He’s been taking self-defence classes. It’s been surprisingly beneficial for both of us,” he gushed. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of times he’s whipped it out these past three weeks.”

Hawk closed his eyes, tilting his face to the sky. A look Johnny understood well. One that expressed the long-suffering feeling of ‘why do I like this idiot?’

Biting back a smile, Johnny was gearing up to drag the kid’s torture out when a confused voice sounded behind him.

“Johnny?”

_Again_?

“LaRusso, hey. What’re you doing here?”

He quirked his head, hitching his guitar case higher onto his shoulder. “I don’t know Johnny, thought I’d just pop by every stage until one let me on. Heard it’s a good way to get your name out there.”

He cringed. Yeah, stupid comment.

“It’s my fault, Mr. LaRusso,” said Demetri, stepping forward. Hawk looked alarmed, his hand raised almost imperceptibly out toward Demetri, ready to pull him back if needed.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was trying to show Mr. Lawrence the stage he was gonna be playing later so he wouldn’t get lost again but, silly me, I got mixed up and brought him here by accident. So dumb,” he said, lightly smacking his forehead. “I’ve been a space cadet all day. Hawk can attest to this. Must be the heat.”

Eyes wide, Hawk quickly nodded.

The raised brow, dancing glint in his eye, and pinched lips told Johnny everything he needed to know: LaRusso didn’t buy it, but he’d let it slide. For now, at least.

“The thought was nice at least, Demetri. I’m sure Johnny won’t give you a hard time over it.” He looked at Johnny. “Will you?”

“I’m never going to let him live it down,” he said, deadpan.

LaRusso tried to cover his laugh with a cough, but failed miserably.

He smirked. What a dork.

“Um,” said LaRusso, his gaze finding its way to his. “Guess I better go get ready.” His eyes flickered down, then back up, now looking at him from under his eyelashes. His heart skipped a beat.

Jesus. Skipped a beat? What was he, a swooning damsel?

“See ya later?”

“I guess. Unless you finally got your bus back,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. 

LaRusso’s lips quirked into a sly smile. “Yeah.”

With a quick wave of his hand, he mounted the stairs that would bring him backstage, Johnny watching him go until he disappeared behind the black curtains.

“You think he bought it?”

Hawk rolled his eyes good-naturedly.


	3. Chapter 3

After their run-in with P.J., word had spread like wildfire that Daniel LaRusso and Johnny Lawrence were touring—and together at that (never mind the literal almost hundred other acts that were there with them)—something that seemed to invigorate ticket sales and the tabloids’ interest in them again. Reporters had been requesting interviews and comments from them like crazy, none anywhere near as bold as that asshat P.J. had been though. Thank god.

(Honestly, he could only fight so many of them before it got ridiculous.)

Still hating reporters in general—and worried about shoving his foot in his mouth again—he’d denied almost every offer. Only accepting requests from people he’d talked to before and knew cared about journalistic integrity on some level, or writers from his favourite magazines. Y’know, Rolling Stone, Esquire, …Playboy.

What? They wrote hard-hitting articles.

Conversely though, LaRusso had accepted almost every formal request, only turning down ones he knew for sure were done in bad faith and/or wanted a dual interview with him and Johnny. Which, Johnny had to admit to himself, stung a bit. Or pinched. No. No-no. LaRusso definitely couldn’t get to him like that. …It was for sure whatever less than a pinch was. Yeah. That’s what it felt like. Less than a pinch.

Still, it’s not that he faulted the guy for denying them—he probably would’ve too, if their roles had been reversed. But he couldn’t help but think that getting to do an interview with LaRusso would solve a lot of their problems. Put to rest the rumours that had been swirling about their ‘rivalry’ being reignited. That they were ‘throwing hands’ (whatever the hell that meant) between sets on the regular.

The guy just didn’t seem to want to though.

Maybe it had something to do with the funk he’d been in. Since the first major headline broke about them touring, LaRusso had taken to sulking—though he’d be sure to deny it. But it was true. Normally the four of them would shoot the shit, play video games, explore the city they were in—and, on one notable occasion—even jam together. They hadn’t done any of that since, LaRusso instead ‘going for walks’ alone, strumming on his guitar lost in thought, or staring at blank notebook pages, tapping his pen. Even Sam’s attempts at cheering him up seemed to be useless, sometimes even making him spiral further. 

It was driving him nuts.

Apparently he wasn’t the only though.

“You gotta do something, sir,” pleaded Miguel as he grabbed Johnny’s guitar from its case as he helped him get ready backstage for his show. “Sam’s really upset now. She’s even thinking about calling her mom to ask what to do and they haven’t been married for years.”

“I’m sure once his period’s done he’ll go back to normal.”

Miguel sighed. “Sir, you know you’re not supposed to say that kinda stuff; it’s sexist.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, holding his hand out. “Give me my guitar.”

Like it was a newborn, Miguel gently placed it in his hands, only for Johnny to swing the strap over his shoulder, letting the instrument fall against his side.

“So, you’ll talk to him? Figure out what’s wrong?”

“Jesus, you’re no better than those stupid reporters,” he said, trying to tune the low E string. “No. LaRusso’s a grown adult—despite what his stature might suggest. He can handle his own shit.”

Miguel’s face did that weird twitching thing again.

“But—”

“No.” Johnny grabbed his ear piece, putting it in. This was truly the last thing he needed right now.

Miguel set his shoulders. “Sir, I really think you should try and talk with him. You don’t have to do anything big. It’s just, sometimes people need someone to show they care.”

He glared at Miguel. “I don’t care about LaRusso,” he said. “And what did I say about cramping my pre-show style?”

Expecting Miguel to give in like he always did, he was instead surprised when the kid stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the stage.

“Diaz,” he growled in warning.

“No,” he said, hands on his hips. “You need to do this. Not for me. Not for Sam. And maybe not even for Mr. LaRusso. But for yourself.”

He searched Miguel’s eyes, looking for a sign that this was all some elaborate set-up. His gaze was steely though, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth set. A look Johnny hadn’t ever seen him express before. At least not as intensely.

“I don’t have time for this.” He pushed past Miguel and walked on stage, letting the immediate roar of the crowd overtake him, drowning out everything but the music.

——————————————————————

As soon as he’d walked backstage after his set had ended—his performance high still buzzing through his skin—and had realized Miguel hadn’t stuck around like he always did, his mood had promptly plummeted.

Not wanting to deal with two miserable LaRussos and a pouting Miguel on top of his own sour mood, he decided to find somewhere other than his tour bus to celebrate.

Which was how he ended up in a semi-busy dive bar on the outskirts of New Orleans, ready to party.

Except, as soon as he’d entered, he suddenly didn’t feel up to celebrating or interacting with the locals. Instead, he settled into a sticky, poorly lit corner booth with his go-to drink, a bowl of shelled peanuts—more broken shell than nut—his only company.

Christ this was sad, even for him. At least in his RV he could have watched something other than meth head patrons sucking face or college Football reruns.

Mic feedback cut through the air, causing him to wince.

“Sorry, ‘bout that folks,” said one of the staff, his gravelly voice echoing through the building. He was standing on a small, mood-lit stage on the far side of the bar. Behind him, stood a keyboard, an old guitar, and some big machine that looked vaguely like a giant stereo but for some reason had a tablet screen attached to it.

“We’re ready to start the second half of open mic night. Still got some room on the list if anyone wants to sign up, by the way. I’ll leave it right here,” he said, pointing the clipboard in his hand towards a nearby stool. “Just to rehash the rules for any new comers, if you don’t wanna play an instrument, we got this fancy new karaoke machine here. Every song you could possibly imagine. Just let me know before you get up there and I’ll set it up for ya.”

Oh. Oh _no._ This place did karaoke. God kill him now. He was gonna need something way stronger than beer to get him through this.

“First up,” continued the worker, “we have, ah, Eugene Martone playing an original song for us. Welcome, Eugene,” he said clapping, a soft spattering following.

Of course he had to pick the one bar on the one night that it was doing its local talent show. His luck really was shit. Maybe there was another bar close by, one he could walk to so he didn’t have to waste even more money on a taxi.

T hen, a stunning male voice, filled with such deep emotion that Johnny felt it in his very soul, floated into his ears.

“ _It happens a lot, I know; I turn the other way_

_You say not to go, but I’m not built to stay_

_I just wish you could know this darkness in me_

_Built a home long before you ever had a key_ ”

He couldn’t make out the man on the stage through the dim lights, his head bent too low and covered by a hat, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. Slouching on a barstool, he continued to strum a simple, but impactful chord on the old guitar.

“ _(Don’t take this personally but)_

_(Don’t take this personally but)_

_I don’t think this is something I can weather_

_Just understand that I fought hard_

_But sometimes it’s much easier to close your eyes_

_And pretend the world’s not real again_ ”

Before he knew it, he was weaving his way through the crowd, entranced as if being lured in by a siren’s call.

Only a few feet away now, at the back edge of what was normally a dance floor but had now been repurposed as a casual dining/seating area to watch the performers, he listened.

“ _I hope you can understand_

_This isn’t what I wanted_

_I hope you can pretend_

_This isn’t what I intended_

_I’m no longer sure_

_I can obscure_

_That something’s been creepin’ up inside_

_An emptiness I can no longer ignore_

_There’s something wrong with me_

_Wrong with me_

_Wrong with me_

_With me_ ”

The air left Johnny’s lungs as if he’d been sucker punched. He knew that voice. Knew it almost as well as he knew his own.

“LaRusso?” he breathed.

“ _Is this all I was meant to be?_

_A let down, down, down, down, down_

_A let down, down, down, down, down_ ”

His knees went weak. Before his ass hit the floor, he managed to grab hold of the counter behind him, holding on for dear life.

“ _It happens a lot, you know; fighting until you forget what for_

_The only reason I’m still here is because you want more_

_But some part of me understands I’m too weak for this_

_And I need you to see it too to put us both out of this misery_ ”

Holy shit.

He couldn’t say he knew much of LaRusso’s discography, but there was no way a song this… raw, this _real_ , would’ve been allowed on one of his albums. It just wasn’t what he was known for.

For the rest of the song, he watched and listened as LaRusso poured his heart out, so absorbed in his craft the audience was no longer there.

That was something Johnny had always respected about LaRusso. Despite the generic shit he often put out, he was still obviously talented and passionate. So much so in fact, it often left Johnny wanting, desperate for even a sliver of what had always seemed so natural to him.

But maybe it hadn’t been. This song was a new side of LaRusso he hadn’t known existed. A part of him that showed he too had demons and struggles that weighed so heavily on him they made him feel weak. Alone. Miserable.

Scared…

All things Johnny knew intimately.

An enthusiastic round of applause broke him from his thoughts.

“W-wow!” said the staff member, dumbstruck as he took the microphone from LaRusso. “Give it up for Eugene one more time folks.”

LaRusso set the guitar down, dipping his head at the whistles and claps and left, winding his way through the crowd and out the back door.

Slapping a twenty on the counter to pay his tab, Johnny bolted after him.

The night air was cooler now, sending a shiver through him as he ran into the parking lot. He searched around, looking for the man, but coming up short. Had he somehow left already? He hadn’t been that long, there was no—

“Johnny?”

He whirled around. LaRusso, still wearing his sunglasses and that stupid hat, was looking at him, mouth agape in surprise as he sat on the ground against the wall of the bar.

He sagged in relief.

Not wanting to waste another moment, he walked over, sliding down to sit next to him. Not once did LaRusso stop looking at him.

They sat like that for a long moment, the muffled sounds of the bar and far off traffic keeping them company.

Then LaRusso started biting his nails, forcing Johnny to suppress a smirk. Some things never changed it seemed.

“Y’know,” he began, feeling LaRusso tense, “that’s a really dumb hat. You look like an idiot.”

LaRusso stilled, then promptly burst out laughing. Before he knew it, Johnny was joining in, not sure if it was the infectiousness of the sound, or the relief of knowing LaRusso wasn’t going to try and bite his head off.

What is it that Miguel had said? “ _You don’t have to do anything big. It’s just, sometimes people need someone to show they care._ ” Maybe the kid had been on to something there.

As their laughter died down, they found each other again. LaRusso’s gaze intoxicating, the bright openness of it alluring in a way he’d never tire of looking at. It had always been a wonder to him, that whatever light was around always somehow managed to find them, creating a mischievous, even flirty glint every time. It was inspiring. Breathtaking.

He inhaled, quickly looking away. No, he couldn’t let himself fall like that again. Not with LaRusso. He wouldn’t be able to get back out again if he did.

“Thank you for… y’know,” LaRusso began, taking his hat off and setting it between them, his voice soft, “being so cool about everything.”

He shrugged. “I’ve always known you were human, LaRusso.”

LaRusso looked at him, eyes searching his face. Maybe this time he’d find something worth staying for.

“For letting us stay with you, as well. Seriously, Johnny, thank you. Not a lot of people would do that. Especially for their… whatever we are.”

The sincerity in his eyes almost hurt to look at. Being on the receiving end of such genuine, positive emotion was a lot. It made his sinuses hurt.

So, of course, his subconscious had to try and ruin it by forcing him to blurt out: “Why don’t you write more songs like that?”

Internally cringing, he waited for LaRusso to glare and tell him to screw off. Instead, much to his surprise, he looked thoughtful, seriously considering Johnny’s question.

“I, uh, write a lot of songs like… that,” he said, ducking his head. “I just never release them.”

“Why?”

LaRusso raised a brow. He shrugged in turn. He’d already taken the plunge, might as well enjoy the drop.

Sighing, LaRusso turned back to face the parking lot, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I think… I think I’m afraid people wouldn’t get me, y’know?”

Surprisingly, he did. Everyone thought it was the potential shit feedback and hate that would be the worst, but at least those things meant someone _felt_ something about his art, even if they didn’t like it. No, what was worse was the fear that he opened his heart, only to have people turn away, impassive, and pretend it meant nothing that he’d just exposed a horribly vulnerable part of himself.

It was the same reason he too didn’t release music that cut too close to the bone.

“I do.”

LaRusso’s eyes softened. Though no words passed between them in that moment, Johnny had a strong feeling LaRusso really did know that he truly understood him. And god did it ever feel exhilarating to have those eyes finally look at him with connection and understanding.

A moment passed, the air around them charged with something he couldn’t name.

Then LaRusso’s gaze flickered down as he bit his lip, only to look back up through his lashes, sending a sharp tendril of pleasure straight to Johnny’s dick.

Before he could react, LaRusso leaned in, Johnny quickly following suit not going to let him have all the fun.

Mere inches apart, LaRusso’s eyes slid shut, his bottom lip plumper now that it was free from the kneading of his teeth. Heart pounding, Johnny caressed a hand along his jaw, pulling him closer, breathing in that enticing pine tree body wash. Their lips brushed, a feather light feeling, then—

LaRusso jerked back, suddenly pulling away and tearing Johnny out of whatever lust-filled fog he’d been in. Blinking to clear his head, anger was already brewing at LaRusso blue balling him when realized he was answering his phone, his brows scrunched in worry.

“Sam? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He couldn’t hear what it was, but he knew it wasn’t good, based on how LaRusso’s face fell.

“I’ll be right there.”

He hung up, looking at Johnny apologetically.

“We gotta go.”

————————————————————————

Before the taxi had even come to a complete stop, LaRusso was out and already halfway to the RV.

By the time Johnny had paid and gotten in himself, he was pulling away from a hug with Sam.

“I’m so sorry, dad,” she said, her eyes bright with hurt. “It’s not fair.”

“Sam, sweetie, you’re worrying me. What happened?”

Looking down, she shook her head, lips pursed as if physically unable to talk.

“It’s this, sir,” said Miguel, voice low, holding out his cellphone. It was open to some internet page.

LaRusso grabbed it, reading what it said. His face blanched, then darkened as he continued, before going completely stony, emotionless in a way that made Johnny stand straighter.

A bad feeling curdled in his stomach.

“What is it? What happened?” They ignored him, the kids’ eyes glued to LaRusso, and his to the screen.

“I need to go,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Dad…”

He handed Miguel’s phone back and abruptly left the RV without another word.

Sam put a hand to her mouth and sniffed, her downcast eyes filled with unshed tears. Miguel gently pulled her down onto the couch and sat next to her, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“It’ll be okay, Sam.”

“Is someone gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”

Wordlessly, Miguel handed his phone over.

It was an article, but he didn’t even need to get past the headline to know why both LaRussos were so upset.

**_Nariyoshi Miyagi, revolutionary music manager of the 80s and 90s, or sadistic, anti-American tyrant? A victim finally exposes the truth about the closed-off industry titan._ **

He blinked. Then blinked again. This couldn’t be right.

_The_ Miyagi? LaRusso’s Mr. Miyagi? The same one who saved his life from Kreese? The one who’d secretly visited Johnny in jail to help him get his head out of his ass and take the plea bargain to avoid prison time? That one? A sadistic, anti-American tyrant? What in the hell.

“This is bullshit.”

“I know,” said Sam with a sniff. “Their ‘source’ is obviously someone with a grudge or something, but it’s still all over social media. People are freaking out, making assumptions. Saying these-these _horrible_ things about him and my dad.”

“They’ve dragged Mr. LaRusso into it,” explained Miguel. “Saying he’s either the source or knew about Mr. Miyagi and kept quiet to protect him. They’re trying to cancel him.”

“What is he, an HBO subscription?”

“It’s an internet thing,” said Miguel with a shrug, his voice still subdued. “Just basically means people aren’t happy with him right now.”

He looked back to the article, mind buzzing with a million questions.

Then a passage caught his eye.

**_Miyagi, most well-known for managing the boyband Bonsai!, helped the Newark-based quartet composed of Daniel LaRusso, Nicky Campini, Reese Marlin, and Freddy Fernandez, shoot to superstardom in the mid-80s. There’s no question his diligent work with Bonsai! was the reason they were able to edge out the fiercest competition at the time—the John Kreese managed Cobra Kai, a Los Angeles-based boyband of five—and come out on top, amassing a staggering 90 million albums sold world-wide since their debut, with 12 number one singles over the span of their ten-year run. What’s not as well known though, is the underhanded methods Miyagi used to get this once floundering band off the ground. My source—an insider in the music industry who had direct access to both parties at the height of their respective successes—tells me that despite appearances, behind the scenes Miyagi was cutthroat when it came to the competition, his tactics so targeted and brutal he become the main inspiration for the popular Cobra Kai song “No Mercy”, a song about surviving abuse from someone in power. A former member of Cobra Kai even allegedly told the source at one point he was “afraid for his life” because of the ferocity of the harassment he endured._ **

**_It doesn’t stop there though, in a newly revealed evidence, Miyagi, in a fit of rage, ended up attacking Kreese after the 1984 Grammy Awards when Cobra Kai edged Bonsai! out in one of the categories, losing them the chance to claim most awards one in a single night…_ **

‘The main inspiration for—’? Harassment? Attacking Kreese? _What_!? It was all such blatant BS it made his head hurt, who the fu—

_…Shit._

‘ _By P.J. Little_ ’ stared back at him.

He was gonna _kill_ that bastard when he saw him again.

He opened the RV door.

“Where’re you going?” asked Miguel, his brows furrowed in concern.

He looked over his shoulder. “To make things right.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re the best, Carmen. I ever tell you that?”

“Not often enough.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

She huffed a laugh, the breathy sound taking on a tinnier edge through the phone. 

A moment of quiet passed between them, a sign he recognized that meant she was wrestling with something.

“You sure you wanna do this, Johnny? It’s not too late to back out.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I have to. It’s the only way to fix things, Carmen.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, the worry making her voice heavy. “Just remember to keep your anger in check, it’s harder to fight against their bullshit when you’re screaming at them.”

“I don’t scream,” he said. “I yell. There’s a difference.”

She snickered. 

“‘kay, I gotta go now. Tell Miguel I’ll phone him later, all right? And that he better not ignore my call this time or I’ll find a way to send that Sam girl embarrassing photos of him. I’ve got a collection started. My mother’s been helping.” 

“God, please don’t,” he groaned. “I can’t deal with him moping.” 

“Exactly,” she said. “Bye, Johnny.”

“See ya. Thanks again.”

Exhaling as he hung up, he felt the pressure that had been resting on his shoulders the past few hours finally begin to ease up. 

He’d been making calls, phoning every Cobra Kai member—even Dutch, who was currently serving prison time. They’d all sworn up and down they hadn’t been the ‘source’ for P.J.’s article and didn’t know who it could’ve been, something he’d stake his life on to be true. They’d been through some tough shit together, forging a bond that wouldn’t be so easily broken by the likes of P.J. Little.

Still, very few people knew about what went down at the ’84 Grammy’s. There’d been an ‘attack’ sure, but it had been Kreese going at Johnny, Miyagi saving his life. Everyone who’d witnessed it knew that plain as day. But if it wasn’t the other Cobras spinning a story, and it couldn’t be Kreese seeing as he was dead and all, and Daniel was a given automatic free-pass, who the hell could it have been then? 

Had someone else been there and he’d forgotten? The other guys couldn’t remember, but maybe Daniel did. 

Except he wouldn’t answer his phone, leaving Johnny not only annoyingly worried he was out there doing something stupidly LaRusso-esque, but still leaving him confused at where to look next. 

Which is why he’d called Carmen, asking her to do the one thing he hated more than anything else: doing an interview with the biggest and most ‘respected’ gossip source possible he could on such short notice. Having a publicist friend really did have its perks. …If you considered being able to get annoyed to death by brownnosers and talentless hacks a perk, that is.

Still, it was worth it. If everything went to plan, P.J. would be feeling the heat from his ‘work’ by the end of the day tomorrow. 

——————————————————————————

“Welcome back to Entertainment Deluxe Today on SiriusXM. My co-host Lynn Calvin is off today—something she’ll be kicking herself for when I tell you who our special guest is.” An annoying mix of sad/disgusting sound effects played, making Johnny’s eye twitch. 

“I’m Alessio Christenson, and here with me today is someone you may recognize as one of the baddest bad boys from the 80s and early-90s. He was in the hitmaker pop group Cobra Kai and the rockin’ band The Johnny Lawrence Experience. And if that doesn’t make it obvious who it is, well, it’s the man himself, Johnny Lawrence! Thanks for talking to us today, Johnny.”

“Thanks for having me.”

Alessio, a lanky man with tightly-curled caramel coloured hair, smirked at him. “So, Johnny, how does it feel to get back into the swing of things? Touring after being on the down low for so long must be a lot.”

“It’s like riding a bike. I was a little rusty at first, but now I’m killin’ it like always.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So, I heard that there’s a few people on this tour that you used to interact with back in the day. What’s that been like?”

“That’s definitely one way to put it,” he joked. “Um, well, it’s been great, actually. Been fun getting to catch up with everyone.”

“Even Daniel LaRusso?”

Jesus. He didn’t think he’d go right for the jugular so fast. 

“Yeah. Especially him, actually.” 

He looked shocked, the first genuine emotion he’d seen from him so far. 

“Really? Given your history, I would’ve thought things would be awkward.”

He barely contained an annoyed sigh. “They were. At first,” he explained. “But we’ve had almost 30 years to come to terms with… everything, and there’s no hard feelings now, I don’t think. From either side.”

“Wow. I guess those boyband grudges don’t last forever.”

He smiled, but it was tight. “I guess.”

“Does that mean those recent claims about how Cobra Kai was treated by Mr. Miyagi—Bonsai!’s manager—aren’t true then? Or are Daniel LaRusso and Mr. Miyagi easy to separate in your mind.”

He sat straighter. “The claims are all bullshit,” he said, voice full of conviction. “Mr. Miyagi was a class act; he didn’t look at someone and wonder if they were good or bad, but instead as someone inherently human and capable of both. It all just depended on the influences in their lives.” 

“So he never harassed any of you? Or attacked your former manager John Kreese, as the exposé claims?”

Even though he’d wanted him to ask these questions, he still found himself getting pissed at them. Just the mere thought that anyone could buy it set his teeth on edge.

“Never.”

“Well, no offence Johnny, but I’m sure a lot of fans want to know—myself included—how can we trust you’re telling the truth, especially after you’ve supposedly made up with Daniel LaRusso? How do we know you aren’t just trying to keep the peace between the two of you? You’re on tour together after all, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to start drama when you’ve still got so many stops left.”

He stilled, not expecting that one. 

How did he prove that? He didn’t even truly know himself why he was doing this. Was all this for LaRusso? Maybe. Would he have tried this hard even a few weeks ago, before he’d found whatever it was with LaRusso? Or would he have sat by and let Miyagi get shit on, getting on with his life like nothing had happened? The answer made his gut clench. 

“It’s not about peace or staying out of drama,” he said. “Sure, I’d like to keep things cordial with LaRusso, but that’s not what this is about, it’s about making sure a good man doesn’t get slandered—or libelled, whatever.” He huffed a sigh, too many conflicting feelings swirling inside him it almost made him dizzy. “Look, if you want to know what kind of guy he was, he’s the type that, despite being on ‘opposing teams’, or whatever, still helped you out when you needed it most.”

“Let you hold one of his gazillion Grammy’s when you were feeling down, did he?”

He rolled his eyes, trying hard to clamp down on his anger. “No,” he ground out, wishing serious harm on P.J. for putting him in the situation. “He’s the kind of guy who saves your ass from prison.”

Alessio blinked, clearly stunned at the answer. 

“I—w-wow,” he stuttered. “Um, so, is this when you injured Daniel’s knee and were charged with second degree assault in, what was it, ’91? He helped you get out of that? A lot of people were pissed about that. Thought you deserved worse.”

“No, not ‘get out of’. I still got in a lot of shit for that,” he said, clenching his fists. “He just helped me make the right decision, ‘cause he knew I’d made a mistake, and was about to make an even bigger one.”

“You mean he helped you evade consequences,” he said, voice incredulous. “Consequences that happened because you seriously hurt someone he was in charge of. Someone he should’ve been looking out for.” 

The blood drained from his face. “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“Well, it’s not,” he spit. “All I’m saying is, Miyagi was a good man. He’d help you if you needed it, that’s it.”

“It’s hard to believe that—“

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s hard to believe or not, it’s the truth,” he said, abruptly standing. He yanked the headphones off, tossing them onto the desk. “I’m outta here.”

“Oh, c’mon Johnny, don’t be that w—”

He slammed the door shut, rattling the windows. 

As he stalked down the hall, he tried desperately to clamp down on the leaden feeling sinking in his gut, the one that told him he’d just made a very big mistake. 

——————————————————————

The ride back to his tour bus was hell. Miguel and Carmen had called him, each telling him that his interview had re-ignited the backlash against him from all those years ago with a vengeance. Then Summers had finally called him back, only to tell him he was getting kicked off the tour. Something about not being able to handle all of the negative press and lost ticket sales he was bringing. Some fan.

Then, the cherry on top of his shit sundae, was arriving back to the RV, only to find half of the LaRussos’ luggage, including LaRusso’s guitar case, sitting outside, a taxi idling out front.

“What the hell?”

LaRusso stepped out of the RV, a backpack over his shoulder, heavy bags under his eyes as if hadn’t slept in days. 

“What’re you doing?”

LaRusso pushed past him, setting the backpack in the backseat before heading for more luggage. 

“Hey.”

Again, LaRusso ignored him. 

Pulse pounding, he grabbed LaRusso’s arm. The look he got would’ve flattened a lesser man. 

“Where are you going?”

“Away from here. You,” he clarified, yanking his arm out of his grip. He picked up a bag and put it in the trunk. Johnny followed him. 

“You can’t just leave. What about the rest of the tour? You didn’t get kicked out too did you?”

“I dropped out.”

Johnny stopped in his tracks. 

“Why would you do something stupid like that?”

LaRusso stopped, shaking his head, a pinched ‘smile’ on his face in what Johnny knew—after being on the receiving end of it for so many years—was his ‘I’m pissed’ face. 

“Stupid?” he said, voice cold in a way that disturbed Johnny. “Stupid? No. Stupid was you bullying a reporter—yeah, I know about that, by the way. Stupid was you going on that goddamn radio show and making everything worse.” He growled, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. “Why would you do that, Johnny? I had everything under control. That stupid article would’ve been gone and buried in a week, now it’s all everyone can talk about. And now your career’s done.”

The sting in his chest at those words was greater than he’d thought it would be. “I’ve had my career end before, what’s one more time?” The lightness he’d been going for fell flat. He sighed. “I was trying to help. It’s not my fault the reporter was a sleaze and the host was an ass—”

LaRusso laughed. “There you go again. Blaming everyone but yourself. Grow up, Johnny. Take some responsibility for your actions for once.” 

He ground his teeth so hard it was a wonder he didn’t crack a molar. “I did—am—that’s why I went there. To make things right. I want people to know that the shit that Little put out there was just that—shit. Miyagi doesn’t deserve that.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” he shouted, as if the words had exploded from within him. He rounded on Johnny. “It doesn’t matter that you wanted to make things right. It doesn’t matter that you wanted to keep reporters away or save someone. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter how hard you try to do the right thing,” he said, a sudden quiver in his voice, the pain there so raw Johnny felt as if it was burrowing its way into his own heart. “It doesn’t work. It just ends in mistakes. Mistakes that are yours and yours alone. The fallout of them included.”

By the way he pulled back, his eyes downcast as if stuck in memory, Johnny got the distinct impression LaRusso was talking about himself, not Johnny. Not really, at least. 

He watched as LaRusso rapidly blinked, coming back to himself, before grabbing another bag. 

“It was you.” He didn’t know why he said it, but it felt right—in the worst way possible. At some point, his subconscious must’ve realized it was the only option that made any sense. LaRusso had been the source. Not in any way that Little had claimed, but obviously something had registered as familiar with LaRusso, even if it was just that one anecdote. Maybe it had been a story he’d told someone in confidence that had been regurgitated to Little, maybe he’d been overheard. Maybe one of a thousand other things. It’s not like it was uncommon in the music industry. 

But that didn’t matter. It was ultimately his own fault, at least in LaRusso’s eyes. He’d inadvertently helped hurt someone he cared about. Something Johnny understood too well. 

LaRusso stopped in his tracks, his back to Johnny. 

“Was it true? That he helped get you out of the prison sentence?”

For a moment, he wanted to play dumb or demand he explain himself, just to make LaRusso talk to him for as long as he could. Any words from him—even those in anger or hurt or guilt—were words he’d take, just to have them. He’d rather have that piece of LaRusso than nothing at all. 

“Yeah.”

He looked over his shoulder, his brown eyes shining. 

“Are you mad?”

LaRusso shook his head. “Only that he never told me.” He turned to him. “You never deserved prison time, Johnny. I’m glad Mr. Miyagi helped you. Truly, I am.” 

LaRusso placed his last two bags in the trunk, only his guitar case was left. He looked at Johnny. 

“I told someone I thought was a friend about that night at the Grammy’s—some other things too. How they really happened, not whatever crap was in that article,” he said, voice flat. “It was decades ago now. I’d hoped he’d forgotten, honestly. Guess he didn’t.” He laughed. “I was such an idiot. Still am, I guess.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me-” he looked to Johnny, “-and the people I care about from experiencing the consequences though.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I hurt you. Again. Miyagi too. I can’t take that back even if I’d give everything to change that.”

The breath caught in his throat at those words, choking him, keeping him from speaking and trying to comfort LaRusso. Stopping him from telling him he’d gladly accept the consequences for him. That he was worth the good and the bad and all that messy in-between shit. 

LaRusso grabbed his guitar, placing it in the trunk—something he had never done before, Johnny noted, always preferring to keep in the backseat—before closing the lid. 

“What about us,” Johnny blurted, suddenly finding his voice. “Where does this leave us?”

LaRusso’s face crumpled, Johnny’s heart following suit. “I-I don’t know, Johnny. I can’t…” he stopped, fists clenching. “I always wreck everything for you,” he said, sounding confused as to why Johnny would even ask the question.

“You don’t though,” he said, stepping closer to him. He was within arms reach now but he didn’t dare try and touch him, not yet. “You want me to take accountability for my actions? Well, I am. Everything that’s happened is my fault, not yours.”

LaRusso looked up at him, large eyes dewy. “You know, from the moment I met you, I knew you’d break my heart.” 

The breath left his lungs, like a punch to the solar plexus with knuckle dusters on. 

“I never thought it would be my fault though,” he continued. LaRusso looked at his face, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. As if he’d never see it again. 

Johnny reached for him. He stepped back.

“We sure messed things up good this time, huh?” said Johnny, his voice wavering. 

A ghost of a smile passed across LaRusso’s lips. “Yeah.” 

With that, LaRusso got in the taxi. It drove off, leaving Johnny alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The next two weeks blew by, Johnny either so shit-faced or dead to the world he wasn’t even sure how he’d managed not to get kicked out of the Jacksonville hotel he was staying in. Or die… Either worked.

He supposed he should’ve gone home, pretended this never happened, and waited for the backlash to die down. For the hurt to stop. But he found he couldn’t do it. It would make it too real. Make losing the last chance at saving his career too real. Make losing LaRusso—when he’d been so painfully close to having him—too real.

Drinking helped him forget that. And forgetting it was exactly what he needed.

As he reached a hand to the floor, searching for a Coors with beer left in it, a knock sounded at his door. He grunted, telling them to piss off. The knocking persisted. And persisted. And persisted some more.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed and opened the door. Before he had the chance to tell them to eff off, someone burst in, almost knocking his hungover ass off balance as they ran into him.

“Sir!”

“Diaz? What the hell.”

“Oh my god, I’ve been calling you all week. I thought you were dead.” He pulled away, hands on Johnny’s shoulders, face twisted. “You’re not, thankfully, but you kinda smell like it.”

He grumbled, shimming out of Miguel’s grip only to realize Carmen was there too.

“Hey, Carmen.”

A sad smile crossed her lips. “Hi, Johnny.”

“What’re you guys doing here? Aren't you supposed to be on the other side of the country?”

“We’re here to help you get Mr. LaRusso back. And hopefully your career.”

He blinked, stunned.

Carmen rolled her eyes. “Don’t even try and deny it. You wouldn’t do something that asinine unless you were smitten.”

“Maybe I was just trying to apologize. It is kind of long overdue.”

She levelled him with an unimpressed look. Yeah, sounded bogus to his ears too.

He slumped onto his messy bed. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said, dejected. “He’s mad at himself. The dumbass thinks this is all his fault and that he’s protecting me or something by staying away.”

“Which is why,” said Carmen moving an empty beer bottle to sit next to him, “we’re gonna help you help him see the error in his thinking.”

He snorted. Getting LaRusso to change his mind? Yeah right.

“It’s true, sir,” said Miguel, standing in front of him, hands on his hips. “And we know exactly how to make it happen.”

——————————————————————————

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Demetri as Hawk looked around the corner, searching the stark white hallway for anyone who’d be trouble. “If I can’t get another security job after this I’m blaming all of you.”

Hawk rolled his eyes. “You don’t even like this job.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I don’t want the option or the reference,” he whined. “Maybe when the alien overlords take control they’ll spare those who can act as bodyguards.”

They all looked at him in disbelief. He blushed.

“What, you never know…”

“Coast is clear; let’s go, we’re running out of time,” Hawk said.

Johnny, Carmen, Hawk, Demetri, and Miguel—with Johnny’s guitar case strapped to his back—jogged down the hall towards the backstage entrance.

They were at the last stop in the All Valley tour: Newark, New Jersey of all places. Apparently Summers had decided to spring for a better venue to close things off, meaning the main stage was one of those permanent outdoor ones with secret tunnels for musician and crew access. Something Johnny would’ve normally loved, but hated in this instance. It made it a hundred times harder to sneak around, especially with an instrument.

Suddenly, a senior, full-time security guard—one twice the size of Demetri and Hawk and dressed in all black—left one of the rooms lining the hall. The five of them dived to hide inside the closet respective alcove they could find, pressing themselves as flat as they could.

The security guard grumbled something into his phone as he paced back and forth.

Carmen, who was smushed next to Johnny, looked to him. “We’ve only got five minutes,” she whispered.

Hawk, who was pushed in with Demetri and Miguel, peeked around the corner, only to shoot back as the other security guard turned on his heel, facing their way now as he paced.

Hawk whispered something to the others, their faces blanching in response.

“What?” he mouthed.

Demetri pointed to the security guard then drew the same finger across his own neck as if cutting it.

Shit.

The security guard pivoted again, his back to them now.

Before he even had time to think, Carmen burst out of their hiding spot, heading straight for the man. Johnny had to bite down on his tongue to stop from calling out her name.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir,” she said, power-walking over to him. He turned around, stopping mid-speech.

“Hold on, Kyle, I’ll have to call you back.” The guard hung up.

“What’re you doing here?” he barked. “This place is off limits.”

Carmen nervously giggled, flipping her hair. “I’m sorry. I got lost looking for the washroom. I really, really didn’t want to use one of those nasty porta potties and someone told me there’d be a real toilet in here.”

Johnny and the boys looked at each other, shocked.

“Who told you that? One of my guys?”

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure, honestly. He was handsome, that’s all I know.”

“Where was this guy stationed?”

“Does it matter?” she whined. “I really have to use the washroom and I’d rather not embarrass myself anymore today. Could you please just show me where it is?”

The guard paused, his eyes quickly flicking to the door he’d just come from.

“Please? I’m desperate.”

He sighed. “Fine, follow me,” he said, walking towards the exit at the other side of the hall, well away from them. “You can’t use the one here, but I’ll bring you the staff one. It’s not far.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” gushed Carmen, placing a hand on his forearm. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Just before they exited, Carmen looked over her shoulder, winking.

The second the doors closed, Johnny and the kids were off, running to the backstage door. He yanked open the door and ran in.

“We’ve got two minutes,” said Hawk as they pounded up the stairs.

They burst backstage, running straight to the sound guy.

“Oh, hey, Miguel,” he said, voice chill like he’d recently taken a hit from a blunt. Smelled like it too. “Thought you changed your mind.”

Miguel shook his head, wheezing. “N-no, Trick, jus-just got held up.” He gasped, reaching a hand into his pocket and taking a dose from his puffer. “Sorry,” he said.

“No worries, kid,” said Trick. “I’d hurry though, Case 1408 is always a li’l late but not _that_ late, ya know?”

“We’ll hold off anyone else as long as we can,” said Hawk. Demetri nodded, his demeanour actually serious for once.

“Good luck, sir,” said Miguel, handing him his now hooked up guitar.

He took a deep breath, then headed for the stage, stopping once he got a peek of the growing crowd through the black curtains.

He looked back to Miguel. “You’re sure he’ll see this?”

Miguel beamed. “Positive.”

Without another thought, he stepped out onto the stage. The crowd roared. The sky was darkening now, streaks of golden red sunlight peeking through the dark clouds. He closed his eyes as a warm breeze ruffled his hair. He breathed deeply then slowly exhaled.

He could do this. It would work. There was no other option.

Opening his eyes, he stepped to the mic, now under the spotlight.

“Sorry guys, Case 1408 will be a few more minutes. There’s just something I have to do first.”

A few boos sounded but overall, the crowd mostly seemed confused.

“You might’ve heard of me—I’m Johnny Lawrence-” more boos came from the crowd, this time almost deafening in its intensity. He dogged a half-empty beer cup someone threw at him.

“Quiet!” he shouted, startling the crowd, effectively silencing them.

“Let me play one song—uninterrupted—and then I’ll get out of here so you can keep pretending you like Case 1408 just as much as that girl you’re trying to bang does.”

A few laughs rippled through the audience, but most stood there, horribly impassive.

He exhaled again, his breath shaky with the kind of nerves he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“This song is for someone I care a lot about. It’s called “Fix This”,” he said.

He could do this. He could. He had to. For himself. For LaRusso. For their potential together.

“ _How do I fix this_?” he sang, his soft, melodic voice echoing into the crowd. Then he strummed his first chord, adding a little more intensity to the words.

“ _When I look back at my life_

_All I see is the consequences_

_Of my endless failures_

_(Piled so high it blots out the sun)_

_The emptiness eats so deep_

_I’m not sure I’m not hollow_

_So pull me close, listen in_

_Tell me my fears are what’s empty_

_Not me, not me_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me there_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me here_

_Like I feel you_

_How do I fix this?_

_Is it possible to survive, to thrive_

_As I reach for balance,_

_Without my heart to guide me?_

_(I know it’s not, I need you to hear it)_

_An overflowing well_

_Now closed-off_

_The holes too big to fix you say_

_But I disagree_

_Your heart was never broken_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me there_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me here_

_Like I feel you_

_I know the nights have been long_

_That I’ve been cold_

_But I need you to know_

_I’d always pick you_

_Especially when you can’t pick yourself_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me there_

_Don’t let go_

_Don’t turn away_

_Turn close_

_Feel me here_

_Like I feel you_

_Like I feel you_

_I know it’s scary_

_So let me hold you close_

_We can fix this_

_You and me_

_You and me”_

He opened his eyes, stepping back, his surroundings suddenly coming back into sharp focus.

The stunned crowd burst into applause. Some people, he realized with shock, were even wiping away tears.

“Um, thanks,” he said, then hurried off stage.

Miguel immediately hugged him, blubbering about how proud he was or something equally girly.

“We gotta go!” said Demetri, back pushed against the door they’d entered earlier. Someone on the other side was hitting it so hard it would open an inch or two every time, almost sending Demetri and Hawk flying.

Thinking quick, Johnny pushed a giant extra amp over to block the door.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, running back to the stage.

“Thanks again, Trick,” said Miguel as they ran by.

“No worries, my guy.”

Just as they got to the curtain, he heard the amp screech against the floor as the door pushed it, freeing up enough space for whoever was on the other side to stick their head through.

“Go-go-go!” screamed Demetri.

The crowd pushed closer and cheered as they ran on stage.

“Who likes crowd surfing?” he yelled to the audience. They cheered even louder, their arms up.

Without having to be told twice, Miguel ran and jumped, his skinny form caught with ease. Soon, he was being passed towards the back of the crowd, a huge grin on his face.

Demetri shook his head, backing up. “No. No way. Not happening. I’ll take my chances with the rhino on the other side of the door.”

Hawk and Johnny locked eyes, nodded, then each grabbed one of his arms, heaving the boy into the crowd. The audience screamed in delight while Demetri screamed in terror, a muffled ‘I hate you both’ reaching their ears.

A loud bang sounded from behind them. The amp was finally out of the way he guessed.

“Go.”

Without a second wasted, Hawk was airborne, a hawk-like caw leaving him just before he landed in the waiting arms of the hyped-up crowd.

The big security guard from earlier, and several others, barrelled onto the stage, murderous rage twisting the big man’s ugly features.

Pulling his guitar close to his chest, he leaped, twisting mid-air so he’d land on his back. The electric, adrenaline-inducing feeling of falling zapped his stomach, the unavoidable thought that he was going to keep falling, entering his mind. Just before he landed, he flipped off the guard, his face going even redder when he noticed. Then hands caught him, bouncing him up and down like the world’s worst water mattress, all the way to the back of the ecstatic crowd.

“Yo man, that was so sick!” someone said, while another tour-goer screamed about catching it all on video.

Not caring, he booked it, side-stepping another security guard as he followed after the kids’ retreating forms.

Somehow, after dodging, slipping, and running into more than one person, the four of them made it to their pre-arranged meeting spot, a nearby park off festival grounds. Carmen, thank god, was waiting for them.

As they caught their breaths—and the adrenaline began to die down—Johnny suddenly found himself thinking back to LaRusso. Had he been there? His headspace had been so messed up every time he’d been on stage he hadn’t really had the chance to seriously look for him.

“Holy shit,” yelled Miguel, punching the air, his jubilance so fierce even Johnny felt like celebrating. “I can’t believe we did it!”

Carmen smiled, peppering Miguel with kisses.

“Mooooom,” he whined, slithering out of her hold.

Johnny chuckled, before wrapping Carmen up in his arms. “Thank you, Carmen.”

He felt her smile against his neck before pulling away. She patted his cheek. “You’re something else, Lawrence.”

He smiled at the affection in her tone.

“I wonder where Mr. LaRusso is,” said Demetri. Hawk smacked his arm, giving him a ‘shut up’ look.

“Ow,” he said. “Jeez, I was just wondering. You told Sam to meet us here right, Miguel?”

Miguel nodded, gnawing at his lip in worry as he looked to his mom and then Johnny before taking his phone out, probably to text her.

He sat down on the closest bench, pushing his guitar to the side before flopping his head into his hands, trying to fight the feeling that he’d just done all of that for nothing. Opened himself up, just for LaRusso to not want it. To remain impassive. Like it meant nothing. 

Carmen started rubbing her hand up and down his back.

“This was all for nothing, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t give up hope just yet.”

“He should’ve been here by now.”

“Maybe he got lost?” said Hawk, though it didn’t sound like he believed it either.

“I didn’t see him. In the crowd,” he said. “I don’t know why but I thought if I went up there, my eyes would just find his. But they didn’t,” he said, looking up. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

They looked to him, their gazes heavy with something akin to pity. He closed his eyes, not able to take it.

“I was there.”

He jumped.

_Daniel_.

“Do you get off on sneaking up on me? It’s like the fourth time you’ve done that.”

LaRusso bit back a smile, but it seemed weary still, like he had misgivings. “You just need to pay better attention to the signals you’re being given.”

Vaguely, he was aware of Carmen grabbing his guitar before ushering the kids—including Sam, who’d apparently come with her father—away.

Well away and out of sight, thankfully.

He stood up, walking closer to him. His pulse thrummed, screaming at him to get closer, pull LaRusso in and kiss him until they were both out of breath and desperate for more.

But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet, at least. Something was wrong.

“So…”

“So.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. He never made anything easy, did he?

“I thought you were back in California.”

He blushed. It took every ounce of willpower Johnny had to not grab him right there and show him how much he loved it when he did that. 

“I’ve been in Newark since I quit. Thought I should spend some time with family. Clear my head.”

“Hmm. Not sure having a clear head is normal for you,” he said, voice low, as he stepped closer.

LaRusso stepped back. Johnny’s stomach dropped.

Had he read the signals wrong? Had LaRusso really not wanted to be with him, instead using the article and interview as a reason to break things off clean before it got too far? Before he could regret even more with Johnny?

“Who was that song for, Johnny?”

Stilling, he wasn’t sure he’d heard him right at first.

“Huh?”

“Was it for that woman? The one who was just here?” he asked, his gaze downcast. “You seemed… close.”

“We are.” LaRusso twitched, as if he’d just struck him. “No. Not like that, god, you’re such a dumbass sometimes, I swear.”

Now _that_ got LaRusso to look at him. He was so predictable.

“Carmen. She’s Miguel’s mom,” he explained, stepping slowly forward, as if not to spook a wild animal. “She’s like a sister to me. That’s it. I swear to you.”

LaRusso’s tense posture eased a little, but he still looked doubtful, teetering on the edge, his cute little pout and crossed arms a dead giveaway.

He closed the gap between them, pulling him into a tight hug. Resting his chin on the soft hair, he breathed him in, willing to wait however long this would take. Then, slowly—as if he were thawing—LaRusso relaxed, eventually slipping his hands under Johnny’s arms, hugging him back.

“That song,” he said softly, lips against LaRusso’s hair, “was for you and only you. You’re the only one worth exposing that part of myself for.”

LaRusso’s hands balled up in the fabric of his jacket.

“I meant every word and more. I want you, all of you, even when you think you’re a horrible person who thinks they hurt everyone they love—especially then, actually,” he said. “I want the LaRusso who keeps me on my toes and doesn’t let me get away with shit. The one who feels so deeply he thinks the world’s problems are his own. And definitely the one who sneaks the last piece of pizza and blames it on the children.”

LaRusso snickered at that, the sound wet but still happy.

“If you ask me, you gotta stop thinking the world revolves around you.”

He yelped, LaRusso pinching his back in retaliation.

Chuckling, he pulled back, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. He needed to look in LaRusso’s tear-laden eyes to make sure he understood. Like he’d always known and just needed to hear it said aloud. “I don’t blame you for what happened back then or for me getting kicked off the tour. None of those things were your fault, by the way. And I sure as shit don’t blame you for sharing what happened at the Grammy’s to someone else either.”

“But if I hadn’t then you wouldn’t have gotten kicked off the tour and I know how important it was to you. Miguel told me. Johnny, I—”

He shook his head. “Miguel needs to learn to mind his own business.”

LaRusso blinked. “So your career’s not on its last legs?”

“I mean, it is, but,” he added, seeing LaRusso’s alarmed look. “ _But_ this tour wasn’t going to fix it, I realize that now. I thought if I made it through this, I’d have people clamouring to sign me again, that they’d regret tossing me aside and forgetting about me. But spending those weeks with you, hearing you sing at that bar, doing all this, it hit me. I was holding myself back. I was so used to people doing things for me—getting me gigs, picking up my slack, writing my songs—that I’d forgotten _I_ could do it all along, I was just choosing not to.”

“Johnny…”

“What I’m saying is, is that maybe I angered a journalist to defend both our honours. Maybe your story got in that article and made it more credible. And maybe I got kicked off the tour for being a dick, but shit happens. Shit we can deal with. Together,” he said. “And, if you’re bad luck for me and I’m bad luck for you, well, maybe we’ll cancel it out by getting together.”

LaRusso stilled, then promptly chuckled. “I’m sorry, but what the hell. That was so cheesy, Johnny.”

He shrugged. “Got you to laugh, didn’t I?”

He was rewarded with a beaming smile, one that formed crinkles around the outer edges of his doe eyes, the very one he used to dream about all those years ago, back when he thought this would never be possible. Back when he used to write his wishes into songs.

This time, he didn’t wait for LaRusso to take the initiative. He closed the gap between them, bending to capture his lips. LaRusso responded with gusto, kissing him back with what felt like everything he had, Johnny’s body singing with a mix of _finally_ and pure base _want_.

LaRusso’s hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, tugging on the strands there. He bucked into him, wanting—no _needing_ —more of this, of him. He sucked on his bruised lower lip, nipping lightly in retaliation for the hair pulling even though he loved it. LaRusso, never one to give up easily, responded by sticking his tongue in his mouth, caressing the roof of Johnny’s mouth, causing him to shiver.

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling away to suck in a little air before going straight for LaRusso’s neck. Just as he was contemplating how he could suck enough hickeys to put his initials on LaRusso’s neck, he pulled away. Johnny groaned, already missing him. With a breathy laugh, LaRusso pecked his lips one, two, three times before stopping.

“You get off on blue-balling me, don’t you?”

He kissed him again, this time gently. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just I’d rather we not end up all over the news right now. One scandal at a time.”

“Huh?”

“People are headed over here,” he explained, gesturing behind Johnny.

Turning, he saw a large family headed their way, probably ready to use the park for what it was actually intended for.

“Goddammit.”

LaRusso cackled, dragging him the way Carmen and kids had gone earlier.

——————————————————————————

“So you’re really doing it? You’re going on tour? Together?”

Johnny nodded, flopping down onto his new couch, something he got a few weeks back, right after he’d come back from Newark. “Yep.”

Miguel slumped onto the couch next to him in a daze.

“You good there, Diaz?”

“Y-yeah. I’m just shocked is all. With you and Mr. LaRusso getting together, Sam and I going Facebook official, Hawk and Demetri showing signs of getting their heads out their asses with how they feel about each other, and now this, I’m just a little overwhelmed, I think.”

“You’ll live.”

Miguel laughed, though it had a slight unhinged quality to it.

“Shit,” he said, looking at the time on his phone. “Gotta go pick up my jacket from the dry cleaners.”

Miguel bolted up, wide eyes following him as he walked towards the door.

“Is it that red jacket? The leather one with the Cobra Kai patch?”

He stilled, frowning. “…Yeah? You already pick it up or something? You know, something an assistant normally does.”

“Noooo,” he said, a slow smile spreading as he peered at him over the back of the couch like a meerkat. “I just found out it inspired a song.”

“You know your mom will kill you _and_ me if you get into drugs.” He grabbed his keys from the front table.

“I’m not high!” he said, brows lowering. “It’s true. Sam told me.”

His hand missed the door handle when the words registered. _Sam_ told him…? Sam LaRusso?

“You’re yanking my chain.”

“I swear on my mother, I’m not. Sam said “That Stupid Jacket” is about _your_ stupid jacket.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh man, I’m never going to let LaRusso live it down. This is great.”

Miguel cringed. “Er, sir, I maybe wouldn’t go too hard. I did tell Sam that “Doe Eyes” was about Mr. LaRusso. I don’t know if she told him yet, but…”

He paused.

“Sir?”

“You’re dead meat when I come back.”

“I’m sorrrrry,” he whined. “She shared with me so I wanted to share with her.”

He face-palmed.

“In that case, you’re uninvited from the tour.”

“What, no! Who’ll make sure you eat? Who’ll carry your guitar? Who’ll make sure you actually go?”

He opened the door, letting out a heavy, put-upon sigh.

“We were gonna have you perform too, maybe even open a couple of shows. Guess I’ll have to break the news to LaRusso.”

Miguel’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Yeah, we talked it over. We wanted Sam and you to get a little more firsthand experience. Such a shame we can’t now.”

“No-no-no,” Miguel said, scrambling off the couch.

“Oh well,” he said, closing the door before Miguel could reach him. By the time he’d made it to his car, Miguel had the door wide open, standing on the threshold like he’d just seen sunlight for the first time in months.

“You’re joking, right sir? Right!?”

He chuckled, getting into the car. God it was fun to mess with him.

He started the car, rolling down the window. LaRusso had admitted the song was about him on their first official date weeks ago, Johnny telling him about “Doe Eyes” in return. It had oddly been freeing, and extremely flattering.

That song had been number one for 11 weeks, okay?

“Later, Diaz,” he said, blasting “That Stupid Jacket” before peeling out, not bothering to hide his grin.

God, life was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally reached the end of this beast! lol 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading 💕
> 
> \-----
> 
> You can find me at tk-buckley.tumblr.com or daniellawrusso.tumblr.com :)


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